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CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 



















































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CHILDREN OF THE 
NIGHT 


BY 

MARY HULBERT ROGERS 

M 



NEW YORK 

DUFFIELD & COMPANY 





COFYRIWHT 1911 BY 

DUFFIELD & COMPANY 


’ ‘ > 



©Cl, A 2 0 583 6 

TVV 




TO MY FATHER 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 

even the professional meditators on Mt. Athos 
had to have something to look at in order to 
keep their thoughts “ collected ” as we say. 
Now that I cannot fix my eyes upon anything, 
I may not be able to fix my attention. 

I shall not expect you every day of course. 
I hope that after a time I may be able to 
listen to reading. I cannot yet. I have al- 
ways been the one to read to the rest and I 
do not attend when another reads, as I shall 
learn to do. I am annoyed by the emphasis, 
and imposition of meaning, which deprives 
me of the right to find my own meaning in 
what is read. While I am correcting or re- 
adjusting one sentence I lose another. 

I try not to think of myself, but I fear that 
the best I shall do for the present is to think 
of my past self, or selves. When I go far 
enough back it hardly is myself. I am in my 
sixth edition — if we change all our particles 
every seven years as my old-fashioned teacher 
said. From an Oriental standpoint I may be 
in a much later edition. In any case the 
earlier editions were quite other persons. I 
sometimes wish that we changed all at once 
— Hindoo fashion — rather than like the 
proverbial vinegar barrel. We should seem 
more truly to have shuffled off the old coils. 

2 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


Such little things I remember and brood 
over ! Some trifling incidents recur so per- 
sistently that I want to tell them, to have 
them written down and disposed of — as one 
might dispose of things, I fancy, at the con- 
fessional, if the listener were very patient, or 
even fast asleep. 

A foolish, childish blunder, a later inad- 
vertence haunts me. It is like a foot-stool one 
stumbles over in the dark until it seems omni- 
present. I wish I could mourn over my sins 
as I have done over my blunders. 

If I could omit the repetitions it would not 
take me long to tell all the things I remember. 
My memory was never good. I have learned 
only by erosion. 

Jack and his love, our marriage, the little 
dead boy that I did not see, are like parts of 
the other stories that I have read. I was proud 
of Jack’s honours and promotions, proud 
when the papers were full of his praise, 
proud when the war was over, to have him 
come back to me — to know he was mine. 
When his ship was reported delayed, then 
missing, and finally lost, I waited — waited 
until my hope and pride went out together 
after long years. I grew to. be so different 
from the wife Jack loved that I knew he 
3 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 

would not know me if he were to come back 
to me. Now that I cannot see, it will be one 
of my compensations that I shall not look at 
the young wives with brown hair and eyes 
and think that they must look as I did at 
thirty — when he went away. 

I do not pity myself — yet. I have always 
thought that I would rather be blind than 
deaf. I am not so sure now. The question 
is less simple than when I had my choice. 
But, I do still think that I would rather be 
in utter, or outer darkness — as our older 
English had it — than go staring about a 
silent world. 

The blind seem more tenderly cared for 
than the deaf, necessarily, as they are more 
helpless. They are more trustful. That al- 
ways means more happy. I never knew 
practical jokes to be played upon blind peo- 
ple. One would hardly call Jacob’s deceit of 
Isaac a practical joke, or Edgar’s success in 
inducing Gloucester to leap from an imagi- 
nary cliff. I felt confirmed in my choice when 
I read, on one of my last bright days, that 
blindness and deafness were not objectionable 
on the stage, “ though the latter seems only 
available for comic effects.” When one seri- 
4 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


ously considers the choice of an affliction, he 
is likely to prefer one which is not comic. 

Still, I do not want sympathy. I quite un- 
derstand how Socrates felt when he sent away 
the women, that their tears might not un- 
nerve him. As he said, one must tread firmly 
when he enters a new world — or leaves an 
old one to wait in the antechamber of another 
as I am doing. 

Are you ready now to write? Since you 
consented to come I have been busy deciding 
where to begin. At first I meant it to be with 
some of the wonderful journeys I made with 
Jack — when wives were not yet taboo. Then 
I went back farther and farther, and forgotten 
people came back to me until I was almost a 
child again among the dear old Newton peo- 
ple; and now I want to start at the very 
beginning, before ever we went to Newton. 

My very earliest memory is of a flaming sky 
with turrets and pinnacles and battlements out- 
lined upon it, and, swarming over all, won- 
derful black creatures with long, long tails — 
not men at all, but very much like men. 

I thought for many years that it was the 
heaven from which I had come and that the 
creatures climbing up and down were angels 
5 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 

such as Jacob saw. They had probably 
brought me down. 

When I had acquired a smattering of the- 
ology and developed a conscience, I feared it 
was the worse place to which I might go. 
Upon reflection, the creatures had been black, 
and armed with pitch-forks or something like 
them — and there were the tails and no wings ! 

After many years, when I found courage 
to ask about it, mother remembered that our 
father had caught me up in a blanket, when I 
was two years old, and carried me out to see a 
fire. She had protested in vain. He was 
young and liked to see what his first baby 
would do. Later ones he allowed to sleep. 

I do not know that I am sorry. From the 
vividness of that first impression intensity may 
have been imparted to later ones. At any 
rate it makes still a brilliant back-ground to 
my life — whose further end will be dark 
enough. 


6 


II 


G OOD morning ! Are the blinds drawn so 
that the room is dark where I sit ? The 
screen? Thank you. I have the old Greek 
feeling borne in upon me that blind eyes pro- 
fane the sun. I like to be quite in the dark 
now that I have done with light. I do not 
mind being seen, exactly. I share old Mil- 
ton’s vanity, who rejoiced so constantly that 
blindness had not disfigured him. 


No, I cannot think for a little. As I told 
you, my thoughts are wayward as Autumn 
leaves, fluttering into corners and then hold- 
ing high carnival before my face — changing 
their identity as they change places. For a 
moment they stop altogether and then go off 
like bunches of fire-crackers all lighted at 
once. 


Amy read last night from some book which 
said that Faith was the eye of the soul. So 
7 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


I have one eye — I hope. I am a sort of 
Cyclops if some Ulysses of doubt does not 
creep into my cave and “ punk it in ” as little 
Madeleine said of her wax dolly’s eye. Poor 
little mite! She used to run to her mother 
with her hand up feeling to see if her own 
eyes were not “ punking in ” too. 


I tried again after you were gone yester- 
day, but I cannot remember anything after the 
fire until I was in my fourth year. We 
graduated that year from the theological 
seminary — at least, father did. John was 
almost two. When father and mother were 
married we did not expect to enter the min- 
istry. We all boarded that last year with the 
Dexters, who were very, very kind to us and 
who loved our little mother dearly. 

I remember that Mrs. Dexter used to cut 
for me paper plates and dust-pans which I 
arranged along the edge of the great, shiny 
library table, .while she and mother sewed by 
the window nearest the big fireplace. When 
I had not enough paper dishes to reach to the 
end and asked for more, they told me to 
“ Run away, dear ” and I had to take some 
from the front to finish out the row. It was 
S 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


a brilliant thought, and, with modifications, has 
been of great assistance on many occasions 
since. 

I used to go across the Common from Mrs. 
Dexter’s, on bright days, diagonally to the left 
and climb some stairs to the room where 
father and Chum studied. The trees were 
bare and I scuffled through the leaves with my 
dolly, Susie, in my arms. When my cloak 
was off my sleeves only came down to my 
elbows. 

Father always set me up on a couch and 
tied my shoe and gave me a book to look at 
— a dictionary of Roman antiquities. The 
pictures were of gods and goddesses, and 
temples and graven arches and garlanded 
oxen — in outline only. I recognised the 
book long after and remembered that I had 
understood perfectly that the gods were not 
real and had been foolishly worshipped. 

It seems strange that I understood what 
worship was at that age, quite as well as I 
do now. I wonder if I should be ashamed to 
admit it? Probably no one knows. 

I remember that one day a dear little mouse 
ran about the room when I was in bed taking 
my nap. Mother did not wish me to be afraid 
of anything, “ except God,” she would add. 

9 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 

She always said how beautiful the lightning 
was and how soft and cunning little mice and 
squirrels were, but that day she ran for Mrs. 
Dexter and they stood up on things, with 
brooms, and told each other what to do. 
“ The poor little mousie was only hunting for 
his hole,” they said, but when George came to 
help it, he hurt it so that it died. We were so 
sorry ! 

I wrapped it in some pink paper to show 
it to father, but when I got there he was gone 
to a lecture. The door was left ajar for me 
so I went in and hunted for a nice place to 
put it. His boot seemed to be the safest, if 
it should wake up and want to run again. 

I forgot it in the wonders of my book, but 
he found it when he took off his slippers to 
go home with me, and had more trouble about 
it than mother and Mrs. Dexter had. 

I remember very vaguely that mother used 
to have a little baby in the bed and in her 
arms, and that when we all went to Lawrence 
one day to have our pictures taken, it was 
Alice. The sweet little face, which was hard 
to see in the old ambrotype, helped me al- 
ways to remember her. My picture was good 
and Susie in my arms was best of all. John’s 
picture was good too — only too fat. 

io 


Ill 


1\ZT R. NELSON called again last night but 
I could not see him. Amy is unhappy 
that I seclude myself so entirely, but even for 
her, dear little sister! — I cannot — yet. 

The doctor says I must sit in the sun- 
shine? I will, by and bye. Last evening, 
late, I walked on the verandah. It is twenty- 
one paces, the length of it. Counting keeps 
the thoughts employed. I was very happy. 

Do you remember how Tasso — or is it his 
translator? — writes about the sky? No 
other writer ever did it justice. Amy brought 
me the book and I could feel, or thought I 
could, the marks on the margins. I always 
would mark my books — the ones I expected 
to wear out myself. I am sorry now, but I 
could not know. I begged Jack not to get 
such extravagant editions, but he always 
would — prizing the “ feel ” of it, he said. 


Mrs. Wilcox dropped in a moment yester- 
day, — of course I don’t mind her, — and asked 
ii 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


if I did not wish I had always been blind ; — 
not in those words exactly, but “ didn’t I 
think it would be easier not to have known 
what sight was, than to have lost it ” ! I felt 
like a man who told father there was no 
chloroform when his leg was cut off, and that 
people who spoke of it invariably asked if it 
hurt! 

Here I sit all day long, thanking God for 
every leaf and shadow and insect I ever saw ! 
Do you remember the shadows of the ripples 
in the brook at the foot of the Arnold hill? 
Not the ripples, but their shadows on the grey 
and creamy pebbles in the bed of the stream? 
When I was a little girl I used to take my book 
or my tatting and creep under the bridge 
in the hot summer days. Half a dozen 
planks formed the bridge and when teams 
drove over I held a paper, umbrella-wise, to 
keep off the dust. I selected an Eastern rug 
for Edith’s wedding gift, because it had the 
colours of those shaded pebbles. The 
thought of them now gives me a thrill of 
pleasure. 

Last night I thought how beautiful the fish- 
scales were, and of the different edges they 
had, then of the red-tipped lichens, and the 
mossy green of the elm-trunk on the corner 
12 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


by Dr. Allen’s, and the patch of raspberry 
bushes along the old corduroy road up in the 
Gore, whose stems were such an exquisite 
shade of lavender — covered with a lavender 
bloom, if stems have bloom. 

Not to have seen! It would be annihila- 
tion. 

Yes. They told me the sermon was about 
Bartimaeus, but I would not listen. I know 
Bartimaeus better than Mr. Nelson does. I 
had a long talk with him the other night, just 
pretending, as the children say. He told me 
how it seemed when he first looked about. 

He thinks he would be blind the first half 
of his life rather than the last — if he must be 
at all. I did not agree with him. I prefer 
to have seen things first and have them to 
think about. He insists that he had more to 
think about before he could see, than after. 
He says he did not think so very much. He 
and the other men who begged on his corner 
used to make fun of people who pitied them. 
He admitted, when I reminded him, that he 
was quite in earnest about being cured of his 
blindness as soon as he heard that there was 
a man coming along who could do it. 

Colours puzzled him most, and he had to 
learn not to feel of things. For a long time 
13 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


feeling was more satisfactory than looking, 
because then he could compare objects with 
those he had known before. He did not know 
his own dog without feeling him over. He re- 
minded me that people with plenty of eyes 
often told each other to “ feel and see ” how 
thick or heavy an object was, which he had 
always been able to do. 

Besides, he did not know how to work, and 
it was hard to be thrown, at his time of life, 
on his own resources. He went hungry to 
bed oftener than he had done when he was 
blind. Of course, he could not foresee that, 
when he asked to have his eyes opened. 


Amy has had a letter from the Burtons in 
New York, and they beg so hard that she will 
come to them for a day or two next week that 
I am urging her to go. I dare not think how 
I shall miss her, but I do not mean to let 
her shut herself up with me — besides, I have 
you. 

No, don’t you remember? Amy was not 
born until after we left Newton — the year 
before father died. 

Father went to Newton as soon as he had 
finished at the Seminary. I was almost five. 
That moving was the most delightful ex- 
14 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


perience ! I do not remember any details ex- 
cept that I sat for some weeks on the floor 
behind the sofa and had a great many strange 
and usually sacred things to play with — 
boxes of shells and little red pease with black 
eyes from mother’s India home. John was 
there too, and Alice, who must not creep away 
or put shells in her mouth or ears or any- 
where. I felt a weight of responsibility and 
I must have taken good care of her, for there 
came a feeling of spiritual pride which has 
always warned me at intervals that perfec- 
tion would quite unfit me for Heaven if 
Heaven be only for the poor in spirit. 

When everything was in order, we had to 
leave the shells and inlaid boxes in the beauti- 
ful parlour by the front door into which we 
must not go alone, unless we had company, 
because the carpet was new, and the room was 
too cold. I did not want to go, either. Moth- 
er’s Aunt Hoyt was hung in there, over the tall 
mantle of white wood that looked as if it was 
made of spools of thread, painted. She hadn’t 
any frame yet but we were going to get her 
one — perhaps with wedding fees. She hung 
by hooks in her shoulder-blades and never, 
never took her eyes off me. Wherever I 
went she watched me, even behind chairs, and 
15 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


directly under her. She could see without 
bending her head the least bit. I wondered 
what she wanted, and why she did not look 
at the others. She might know that I hadn’t 
her frame! 

She must be like God, I thought, watching 
to see “ every naughty thing I did ” — only He 
always rolled his eyes to look in corners. 

Father’s study was at the head of the stairs, 
beyond a darkish corner and near the Attic 
door. Be sure and make a capital A for the 
Attic please, it gives a classic flavour to any 
building if one remembers. We always fell 
down when we ran up to show him dead 
birds or pullets’ eggs. John forgot to step 
up the last stair, and I ran up one too many. 
Alice always came behind. I do not recall 
that we ever fell down those particular stairs. 

The sitting-room was under the study, and 
the bedroom opened off it, on the east side 
toward the garden, which was down hill. 
Alice and I slept in the trundle-bed. The 
big bed swallowed it in the day time. Some- 
times, when our father was away, we could 
not get it out, it stuck so, and we had to get 
into the big bed till he came. 

It used to take a very long time to get un- 
dressed at night, and longer still to get 
16 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


dressed in the morning. I dreaded the dress- 
ing when I got into bed at night. Some of 
my clothes were sure to be lost after John 
had scrabbled them over to find his. 

The kitchen was next to the sitting-room. 
We ate in the dining-room end of it. I had 
to hold my knife in the hand toward the wood- 
shed door and have done so ever since. When 
company came and I had to sit on the other 
side of the table, and try my very best to 
“ act like a little lady,” I always held it in the 
wrong hand and had to be corrected. John 
had to hold his knife in the hand toward the 
pantry door, and got left-handed. They 
might have known! 

I forgot the bear in the corner of the bed- 
room behind the big bed. I was always sure 
he was a she-bear, like the ones that ate up 
so many poor little Bible children — whose 
mammas had not told them how to be polite 
to people. When it was light he did not 
show. He — or she — never really came to- 
ward us, but he would get up on his hind legs 
ready to start. I can see him this moment ! 

When I got too scared and he just began 
to take the first step with one of his hind 
legs, and his eyes had started, I used to call 
out very quickly, that I was thirsty or too 
17 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


hot. As soon as the door was opened I 
could see that he was only a corner. I tried 
to keep Alice awake, so they would not blame 
me for waking her up. 

I have hardly, since, prayed to God with 
such agony of appeal as when I used to beg 
that a crack might be left in that door ! I 
rejoice that the time has come when bears are 
not bug-bears: when they submit to being 
hugged. 


IV 


T DO not wonder you forget the order in 
-1* which we came. You see, I was born be- 
fore we went to Andover, John during father’s 
first summer vacation and Alice just before he 
graduated — Margaret and Hal and Amy all 
came later, Amy after Alice died. Sometimes 
I grow confused myself. 


Amy promised to write Mrs. Burton that 
she would come for a few days, and Mr. 
Nelson is to spend the evening with us to- 
night. It seems he has some church mat- 
ters to consult me about! I feel unusually 
brave to-day. Mrs. Arthur Hammond called 
with her little boy and I couldn’t refuse to see 
her. She and Margaret were in college to- 
gether. I was there with them one year, but 
I was a low-down “ special ” and lived off the 
Campus, so that I did not know her well. She 
asked if I should not like to “ put my hand on 
the baby’s face to see how he looked — 
whether he was like her.” 

19 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


I fear I did choke a bit at that, but she did 
not notice it. I told her, No, that I had not 
yet learned to make out much by touching 
things — and she did not insist. She added 
as a half apology, that she had forgotten my 
trouble was so recent. A few years’ time, 
more or less, is rather a slight matter. 

I had a foolish fear, all the while, that the 
child was looking at me. There is something 
about a child’s eyes that has always awed me. 
Hal and Arthur had a way of looking over 
my shoulder, as if they saw something which 
I could not, especially at night. 

Any physical deformity or abnormity seems 
to fascinate a child. Mother used to tell me 
not to look at Mr. Walter’s thumb that was 
cut off, but I just had to, to see if it was not 
perhaps grown out since I saw it before. It 
took the whole dinner hour sometimes to get a 
good look. If my faith and good will had 
availed it would have grown again. 

Once Mr. Walters asked Hal, I remem- 
ber, how old John was. He thought a mo- 
ment and said, “ He’ll be eight next June if 
he lasts .” Mother exclaimed at that, but he 
said very stolidly and seriously “ Alice didn’t.” 

After the first break, there always seems to 
20 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


be an “if ” with every one, and a silent, if 
not spoken, “ Alice didn’t.” 


When we were little children father often 
came in to kiss us good-night after mother 
had given us the finishing touches. I remem- 
ber that one night when the snow was piled 
in masses all about the house, and there were 
broken wreaths and trailing garlands of frost- 
flowers on the window panes, glistening in 
the moonlight, he said, “ Now think of all 
the little squirrels and rabbits snuggled in their 
holes and go to sleep.” 

From that time to this I pray nightly for all 
the little creatures tucked away in their nests, 
and worry about the naughty ones that are 
prowling about out-doors. 

Yes. I worry about them, but I am sure 
that if I were a creature myself I should 
prowl all night. To be out in the wild night 
alone, has been for years, in my mind, the 
very supreme of freedom. I revel in the 
thought till I am giddy. 

Do you remember in the Centaur that 
Macareus says of his youth, “ I bounded 
whither I would, a blind and chainless life ” ? 
And that the very blindness seems an added 
21 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


freedom? It is as if sight were a restriction, 
involving limitation and responsibility. 

The idea is quite comprehensible to me now. 
I find myself, shut out from my old employ- 
ments and necessarily a part of the general 
social impedimenta, accepting release from 
old duties as one of the compensations; and 
with release from duty comes a sort of reck- 
lessness. Not physically but mentally comes 
the temptation to “ bound whither I will, a 
blind and chainless life.” 

Things which would have shocked me, when 
I had only time to glance at them in passing, 
I do not fear to think now. There seems to 
be no condemning Presence — only the Dark- 
ness — “ that absolute darkness which is the 
pity of the gods.” I seem to be enfolded in 
it — protected and cherished by it. 


22 


V 


T HEY all went to Mrs. Carton’s to tea 
last night, and I sat on the porch in the 
moonlight — at least, I thought I was in the 
moonlight until they came home and told me 
that clouds had gathered, and it was so dark 
Amy had torn her dress upon a wire. 

I had been quite happy. A cricket chir- 
ruped so near me that I did not dare move 
for fear of crushing it. I do not wonder 
that the Japanese buy little insect creatures 
in cages to sing for them. Katy-dids would 
be a real comfort to me if Arthur had not 
said once that they seemed to repeat Hal’s 
“ Alice didn’t.” I love them now, but they 
seem always to be mourning for our little 
dead sister, and when I listen to them some- 
times, a tear comes — a blind tear that seems 
almost an impertinence. I think of her more 
than I have done before. 

When the cricket found me too stupid and 
crept off to bed, I amused myself with in- 
venting a Club. Yes, a real Club. The mem- 

23 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


bers of it are all blind but I think you might 
call it a literary club. We have several lit- 
erary people in it, and enough others to ad- 
mire them properly. They are too busy to 
admire each other much. 

There is Milton, of course, and Homer, and 
Isaac and Ossian and old Polyphemus, who is 
bound over to keep the peace and promises 
not to throw islands at people. 

Samson is a member, and Justice and 
Cupid and Nydia and Hope and Faith. I 
cannot remember them all, nor tell the order 
in which they have been enrolled. 

Charity applied for admission, but she is 
not blind, so of course we could not let her 
in. Her own sisters black-balled her. I am 
not quite sure that Justice is stone-blind, but 
she says she is, and after admitting her as a 
charter member we cannot very well raise 
questions as to her eligibility or her cre- 
dentials. 

Speaking of “ stone-blind ” reminds me of 
sand-blind and Shakspeare’s high-gravel blind. 
I wonder which is positive and which super- 
lative. I must break myself of worrying 
about words and what they come from. It is 
a bad habit when one cannot hunt in diction- 
aries one’s self. 


24 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


John used to call me a dictionary fiend. 
That sort of devil is in a fair way to be 
starved out of me now. Do you remember 
Lamb’s Poor Tobin who did not regret his 
sight so much for the weightier kinds of read- 
ing as because he “missed the pleasure of 
skimming over with his own eye a magazine 
or a light pamphlet ” ? 


Now we shall have time for a lot of biog- 
raphy. Don’t, I beg, let me ramble off with 
that silly Club ! 

I must go back a little, and you will have 
to rearrange later. When I was a little less 
than six years old Mrs. Boynton, whom we 
dearly loved, happened to be down at our 
house one night and to invite me to go home 
with her to sleep. It had been my fondest 
ambition to stay away from home for a whole 
night. There was a flavour of recklessness 
about the thought which exhilarated me. I 
had never been allowed to do so, but Mrs. 
Boynton seemed to possess a magic influence 
that won the day, though even she had to 
plead. 

We had a delightful evening and I got to 
bed without any touch of homesickness — 
though I wished Alice had come too. Before 
25 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


I fell asleep I felt a twinge of it, and even 
suggested going home and coming some other 
night, but it was too late. In the night I 
awoke and cried. Not willing to hurt Mrs. 
Boynton’s feelings I told her that I was very 
happy with her, but I thought it “ would be 
pleasanter to die at home.” 

My spirits revived in the morning, and I 
had some real dough of my very own — dark 
blue dough, I can see it now, — and was roll- 
ing out pie crusts on a chair with a broken 
knife handle for a rolling pin, when father 
dashed up through the snow banks and said 
I must leave my beautiful pies and come home 
with him quickly to see my baby sister. 

Of all nights in the world! I never liked 
Mrs. Boynton so well after that, although I 
knew she could not help it. In my vexation 
I told John that “ it was just like her ” — 
which was the worst that could be said of any- 
body. 

That was Margaret. Two years later Hal 
was born. I do not remember any of the par- 
ticulars, only he was baptised at home and not 
at church because some of the church people 
thought four children enough for a minister on 
a small salary “ and war prices.” I did not 
26 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


know at the time why he was not taken to the 
church like John and Alice. 


Whenever I hear those Bates children go by, 
I think how I used to take care of Margaret 
and Hal — Hallie we called him. A mother 
would have been thought lacking in natural 
affection in those days, who called a baby by 
its bare name. 

We had a new second-hand baby carriage 
for him. There were no Indian “ buggies ” 
then. It had two wheels and a handle in front 
to pull it by, and a cross-stick to hold on to. 
This came out easily, but we could stick it 
back through the hole, and when it was lost 
father could make another. There was an iron 
brace that held it up in front when no one was 
drawing it. Alice and John usually went 
along to help in case of emergency. 

We had four-plank walks with wide cracks 
running lengthwise. When the wheels got 
into them, or ran off the edge plank, the baby 
always fell out and we had a great mess. 
Folks had to run out of houses — cross as 
bears sometimes — and get us picked up. 

If we forgot, the least minute, and let go, 
the whole thing went over behind and the 
27 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


handle stuck straight up in -the air. It was 
harder to find the baby then, than when we 
tipped it over sidewise — or sideways, which 
is it? 


28 


VI 


TV/T ISS AMES? I was sure it was your 
step. I am glad you are come, though I 
am not lonely. Mr. Nelson comes every 
morning now that Amy is away. I wonder 
that I hesitated so long to see him. 

A long letter came at noon. She is having 
a delightful time. She has met an old friend 
of ours at Mrs. Burton’s, a Mr. Kennedy who 
has some title which I forget. We knew him 
quite intimately during John’s college days and 
Jack loved him very dearly. Indeed, Jack al- 
ways insisted that he admired me. Husbands 
do not like to admit that they had no rivals. 
He went to India for some business firm soon 
after we were married and has never been 
home since. Jack and I hoped to see him 
when we were there but failed somehow. 

Amy admires him extremely. I am amused ^ 
and surprised at her enthusiasm. I am glad " 
she went. 


Yes, the Club met last night. Thank you 
for reminding me. I had a long talk with 
29 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


Nydia which I must tell you about sometime. 
It reminded me of one day in London when 
the fog was so dense that people could not 
find their way. Even the policemen had to 
beg the blind beggars to lead them about. 

Two new names are on our waiting list, 
Romney Leigh and Mr. Rochester. We are 
not sure that they will care to join without 
Aurora and Jane. The committee will find 
out before we vote. 

Homer saw me home — if I may use the 
old phrase. We sat for a while, talking on 
the swing-house steps, as Jack and I used to 
do. He says he was only joking about the 
Trojan War and never expected to be taken 
so seriously. Helen and Paris were down in 
Egypt all that while. “ Do you suppose Paris 
was so popular,” he asked, “ that the Trojans 
would coop themselves up within their little 
walls for ten years, to help him keep another 
man’s wife — not fairly come by, at that — 
with CEnone’s friends all up in arms against 
him? 

“ Besides,” he went on, “ it did not matter 
what Trojans would do. Did I suppose the 
Greeks would go off and fight ten years for a 
huzzy like Helen and leave their own wives, 
Clytemnestra and the rest, to show what 
30 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


mice were likely to do when the cat was 
away ? ” 

He says he is really proud to have made 
up such an interesting story about people who 
were all fools on both sides, and to make so 
many people believe it to be true. 

I told him that our American Confucius 
said no one could fool all the people all the 
time. He laughed and said: 

“ It has been done.” 


What should we do if we could not “ pre- 
tend ” ! I am crying this moment — but non- 
sense does me good. What learned critic is 
it, who says there really is not truth enough 
to satisfy our cravings — when we sift it all 
out ? Then he adds that it “ would be mad- 
ness to deny ourselves the resources of the 
imagination.” 

I may as well get what pleasure I can out 
of the Club. 

This morning I somehow fell to thinking 
of little Josey Palmer, who has probably 
smaller Joseys of her own by this time. When 
she had learned to walk she insisted upon 
going with her father everywhere. He was a 
Professor of Greek, and so absent-minded that 
he never noticed her. She amused herself by 
31 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


walking behind him and trying to step in his 
footprints. They were a funny pair, going 
back and forth to the Academy, which 
stretched across the end of the long straight 
road, like the arms of a great cross lying 
against the foot of old Mount Equinox. Mrs. 
Palmer had so many other babies she never 
missed her, and she kept it up for years, until 
at last the family awoke to the fact that she 
had acquired a very extraordinary gait, 
stretching her little legs far ahead with every 
step, and halting a bit as she brought up the 
other foot. 

That is the way I have done all my life — 
intellectually and morally. I have tried many 
gaits — Mary Lyon’s and Fidelia Fisk’s, 
Emerson’s and Thoreau’s, David Brainerd’s 
and Marcus Aurelius’ and Stevenson’s and 
President Finney’s, and plenty of others I 
should not like to mention, between times, who 
took shorter steps and toed in or out. 

Most of the time I have tried to stalk in 
seven-leagued boots. Now here I am, forced 
to sit by the wayside and listen to the foot- 
falls of others, whom I may not follow. 
After a bit, I may find a stick with which I 
can “ move on ” if so commanded. 

I cannot well ask people to read Holy Liv- 
32 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


ings to me and Helps and Daily Foods. Of 
course the Bible is all right, but it is not pre- 
digested. I am sorry I never learned more 
of it by heart. I cannot even remember 
where the good parts are, and Amy does not 
seem to find them. When we get desperate 
and open it at random we stumble upon de- 
nunciations and curses instead of comfort. 

“ I reckon you-all could get some good out 
of the badness,” old Abram told me as he 
rested from his lawn-mowing one day. I did 
not thank him for his Delphic response at the 
time, and could not well do so later. Abram 
is a great Bible student and has most of the 
prophecies unravelled. 


33 


T HIS morning has been so lovely that I 
could bore you with my mercies. How 
well I remember the first time I thought that 
one could be grateful for mere air. I was at 
Bread Loaf Inn, twenty years old at least, 
and the guests were sniffing and exclaiming 
about the wonderful air with what seemed 
the baldest affectation. It seemed to me that 
God could not expect us to be thankful when 
he gave us so much of a thing that we never 
knew we had any. I remember saying, “ We 
might as well be thankful for light ! ” 

We found out quite accidentally to-day that 
Mr. Nelson knows Mr. Kennedy. At least 
he had a cousin who went out in the same ship 
and when he died it fell to Mr. Kennedy to 
write to the family and to send back the few 
things he had left. Ever since that they have 
corresponded and Mr. Nelson hopes for a visit 
from him. Amy seems so happy about it! 
It is just another of the impossible coinci- 
dences which are always happening, that it 
34 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


should bring him back to the old town, once 
so familiar to him. 


I came out alone this morning for the first 
time — did I tell you? It was very early. 
I am not sure whether it was light or not. 
I wanted to feel the bare earth under my 
feet, but I feared things would crawl on me, 
so after a while I sat down behind my vines. 
A wide-blown morning glory hung over my 
head, I knew by the buzzing of a bee — in- 
terrupted while he ravished it. 


No. The Club forgot to meet last night. 
I was too busy with Amy. She hit upon a 
most exquisite place in the Bible, and I went 
to sleep repeating over and over “ The sun 
shall not smite thee by day nor the moon by 
night,” and the “ pestilence that walketh in 
darkness ” ought to comfort me. 

That “moon by night” puzzles me. It 
sounds as if the moon really could hurt peo- 
ple. Would God promise to protect us from 
ills which only idolatry and superstition 
threatened ? 

How I used to love the moon, my Diana, 
my Isis, my Hathor, my Istar! All the old 
pagan fibres in me stirred when I looked at 
35 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


her. No one was ever so little spoiled as she 
by foolish adoration, or bore so coldly and 
regally her honours ! Did my eyes sin in look- 
ing at her? 

I fell asleep thinking about the verses — not 
the moon — and dreamed that I was blind. 
Is it possible that later I shall be blind in my 
dreams? To dream that I am blind is quite 
another thing. At present I do all my seeing 
when I am asleep, and my dreaming when 
awake. 

To see is to be, for do not the old Hindu 
books say that Brahma existed when there 
was “ nothing else blinking whatsoever.” If I 
stop seeing in some way, I must have ceased to 
be. 

Mrs. Elmer Arnold happened by as I was 
finishing my coffee and had the extra cup, 
put in “ for the pot ” as we say. She told 
me among other things that she was run away 
with once, when he was alive. She had the 
farm horses and wagon and her two children. 
As soon as she “ saw that it was a real run- 
away ” she told the children to lie down flat 
on the wagon box and she knew she could 
guide the horses if she could not stop them. 

“ So,” she went on, “ I just fastened my 
eye on the right front wheel and made up 
36 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


my mind that I would keep that in the track 
and let the rest take care of themselves.” 

Once safely home she had thrown herself 
into a chair and begun to cry — to Johnny’s 
great astonishment. He begged her not to, 
adding, “ I think you come home noble” 

If we break the law in one point we are 
guilty of breaking it as a whole. If one wheel 
is out of the track they are all out. I wonder 
— If we can manage to keep it perfectly in 
any one point, may we not get credit for keep- 
ing it all? 

It might be comparatively easy to keep one 
wheel in the track — or to keep one law. If 
our attention is fastened upon that we shall 
not have time to break the rest and may 
“ come home noble ” at last, as many cranks 
and hobby-riders, no doubt, do. 

There again, I have “ whipped my horses 
without looking where I was going ” — and 
come out at an absurdity! 


37 


VIII 


MY read this morning and again I picked 



out a queer bit to remember. “ Blessed 
are those who have not seen.” There may 
have been some more to it, but I have for- 
gotten. It is somewhere among the Beati- 
tudes, I suppose — easy enough to find. I 
must take time to think about it. Of course 
there are many things it is better not to have 


seen. 


There is a verse I try not to think about 
— somewhere in Job. It says that if a man 
breaks the ninth commandment God will put 
out his children’s eyes. I am glad that it only 
forbids us to say false things against our 
neighbours. The world would be full of 
blind children if we were forbidden to say 
polite things about people — at least, to them. 

This has been one of my bad days. I think 
it is because I had a panic last night. My 
Christian Graces all stampeded. It will 
wear away but I must see that it does not 
happen again. The feeling came over me that 


38 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


I would not be blind — that I was a fool to 
accept such a condition. I knew that I could 
get out — like any rat from a trap. 

There must be some knowledge of divinity 
within us, since the inevitable is so utterly in- 
comprehensible. It implies the subconscious- 
ness of omnipotence. Yet, when most utter- 
ably and inalterably determined to see, I find 
my only hope is to — “jump into a bramble 
bush and scratch ’em in again ! ” 

When I fancy myself a Moslem, and my 
trial due to Fate I am quite at rest ; when the 
thought comes upon me that it may be Karma 
— my own fault in some previous state — it 
is torture — such as Dives felt. 


I have never told about the lamb Mr. Hunt 
gave me before Margaret was born, or soon 
after; no, before; — old Sol Hunt, who lived 
out past the railroad, beyond the forty-acre 
lot, full of stumps and red-raspberries, if 
there had not been so many snakes we did not 
dare go in and pick. 

How I loved that lamb! I took it with 
me when I went on errands, and had a pro- 
phetic fear that it might disappear while I 
was gone. 

One day it did disappear when Jennie let 

39 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


me go strawberrying with her down to the 
Meacham lot. 

I looked for it in all the corners and sheds 
and barn and wagon-house, down cellar, be- 
hind the currant bushes, and at old man 
Akey’s, of whom I’ll tell you. Then I got my 
playmates to help me search the highways and 
hedges, and inquired of incoming farmers if 
they had seen it along the roads. 

It was all in vain and I mourned and wept 
for it many weeks. One day a man slung a 
bundle at me as he went by and called out : 

“ Here, sissy, tell your mother here’s her 
lamb skin rug.” 

My lamb had been killed and eaten up, on 
our own table, myself sharing the unnatural 
feast in classic style ! 

On various occasions a wabbly calf with a 
crooked tail had wandered into our barnyard, 
and the question of raising it had been dis- 
cussed. So far as I remember it was always 
decided in the negative and the calf disap- 
peared as mysteriously as it had come, through 
no fault of its own apparently. My lamb had 
never been spoken of as in jeopardy and I 
accounted it a sure possession. 

But I am coming now to real trouble. 

A few days after Margaret was born, when 
40 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


we had just begun to wonder how we ever 
got on without her, old Father Morgan came 
along — a “ Children’s Preacher,” he was 
called when he got old, and only wandered 
around, preaching whenever he got a chance. 
We were accustomed to his visits and when 
he had shaken hands and given me an apple 
and Alice two peanuts, father brought out the 
new baby to see “ what he thought of that” 
Mother was sick that day, but they looked it 
all over and I helped them find the feet. 

When we got it done up again as well as we 
could, Father Morgan said with judicial de- 
liberation, “ I guess she’s worth raising.” 

The familiar phrase struck me with horror. 
They might at any time change their minds. 
Father had only said in reply : 

“ Yes, we’d about made up our minds to 
hold on to her.” So it was not settled ! 
From that time I had no rest, night or day. 
If I had known the feeling in the parish I’m 
sure I could not have endured the suspense. 
I begged not to be sent on errands, and dared 
not leave mother alone with it for a moment. 
When offered meat at the table, I refused it 
until I had run to the crib to make sure Mar- 
garet was not on the platter. Often she was 
crying, which was an unspeakable comfort. 

4i 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


How the dread wore off, I cannot say. 
For long months it was very real, and very 
terrible because incommunicable. 


Yes. We had a Club meeting at Eleusis 
last night, sitting on broken capitals, which we 
fumbled about for, and listening to some be- 
lated archeologists taking “ squeezes ” a lit- 
tle way off. 

Most of us settled down for a quiet talk, 
but Cupid and Nydia seemed to be out for a 
lark. They found handfuls of pebbles and 
played odd-or-even after a while and kept 
comparatively quiet. I could overhear their 
remarks now and then — which were very 
amusing. The funniest part of it was that 
they did not notice the arrivals and some of 
the people they talked about were within ear- 
shot. 

Samson became decidedly emphatic when 
he heard Cupid telling her what a mess he 
had gotten him into once, and how he had lost 
his fine “ suit of hair.” They had to scamper 
off and finish their game somewhere else. At 
least, we saw no more of them. 

I told Homer that you were surprised, — I 
did not wish to say incredulous, — about his 
repudiation of the Trojan War. 

42 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


He insisted that he was quite serious, and 
told me another secret. Can you believe — 
he was paid to “ write it up ” by some of 
those Greek kings, who wished to have at- 
tention diverted from their own family 
troubles! A good many things went wrong 
about that time. 

He did not care for the money, of course. 
Being a poet, he did not need it. But when 
he came to think it over, he agreed with them 
that it would be better to have one big scandal 
than a lot of little ones. 

Menelaus objected at first, but he too real- 
ised that if the thing were well done it would 
be a sort of honour to him. At least, it would 
keep him before the public. I never did like 
Menelaus. 

“ Besides/’ Homer said, “ it did Helen 
and Paris no injustice. They were a bad lot.” 

After all my years of credulity, I was quite 
out-done with Homer’s flippancy. I did not 
know what to believe, but when I reverted 
to my childhood’s oath and asked “ Hope to 
die ? ” he laughed but said “ Yes,” with such 
emphasis as left no room for doubt. So that 
ends my responsibility. 

Still, I do not know that our “ Hope to die ” 
is much of a test if one stops to think. We 
43 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


do all literally hope to die, and any of us would 
rather die on the spot than not at all. 

We had a long letter from Mrs. Burton to- 
day in answer to Amy’s duty letter. They all 
enjoyed having her so much “ especially their 
dear friend Mr. Kennedy.” Indeed, half the 
letter was about him. It seems he owns some 
property — I do not know what — somewhere 
near Grenford and he may run up here. Mrs. 
Burton remembers my interest in the East and 
told Amy I might like to talk to him ! 


44 


IX 



ES, we are very fond of Mr. Nelson. 


Amy and I were in Europe when our 
dear old Dr. Kingsbury died, and we dreaded 
to come home and find a new rector in his 
place. Indeed, I think we delayed our return 
for that reason, though we did not admit it to 
each other. The house was shut up, and al- 
though we had lived here a year without father 
we had never arrived after a long absence 
without finding him to greet us. That, again, 
led us to delay. 

When we landed in New York the Bur- 
tons met us and told us about Mr. Nelson, 
who was the son of some old friends of Mr. 
Burton’s; — that he had come to Grenford, 
and that we were sure to like him. He was 
rather high Church, but would get over that 
gradually. His parents had feared he would 
join a Brotherhood because he had defended 
somebody’s ideas of celibacy. 

We found him all that the Burtons had said, 
and very considerate about assuming that he 


45 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


could fill Dr. Kingsbury’s place, or forcing 
his attentions upon us in any way. I was 
never much help to him. I left Amy to do 
the Lady Bountiful for both of us, perhaps 
because she was so much younger. In some 
ways I was not in sympathy with him. He 
preached things I did not believe. Perhaps 
it was fear of theological consolations that 
made me slow to receive his calls. I need 
not have been so. It was part of my general 
churlishness. 

That reminds me. Mr. Kennedy has come 
up to make him a visit. They would have 
called yesterday if I had felt quite well. They 
did come for Amy on their way to Mrs. Ben- 
nets to dine. I had accepted the invitation 
for her and insisted upon her going. 

They sent their cards to “ Mrs. De Lon ” 
and Amy half begged: “May they not come 
out to you, Oudene ? ” 

“ Not to-day, dear,” I said, with my cheek 
on her hand. 

I think she is afraid to be happy, lest it 
seem to threaten disloyalty to me. I cannot 
tell her, yet, that I am glad for her. I am 
sure she will come to understand me. My 
trouble makes it necessary for us to readjust 
ourselves to each other, the more carefully 
46 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


because we are so close. It is hard for her 
to realise that I like being alone, and that I 
am getting “on in years” and should care 
less and less for society under any circum- 
stances. In a month I shall have finished two 
and a quarter of my three score years. It is 
no secret now. 

It was very sweet of Mrs. Bennet to help 
'Mr. Nelson entertain his guest. Amy says 
that he is a delightful conversationalist and 
story-teller, and his Indian life has given him 
a fund of interesting experience. He seems 
really to have studied their old books and 
traditions. One or two questions I do want 
to ask him, for my own sake and for Amy’s. 
I have quite made up my mind to receive him 
to-morrow. 

After Amy went, Abram happened by and 
asked if he should not go and tell you I was 
alone. I said “ No.” I can still “ see 
through ” some of these things that “ happen.” 

I like the feeling of twilight, and to watch 
the sun set, with my ears. I never knew, 
when I could see, how gradually and regularly 
the sun-set sounds change. The old hens and 
the chickens and cocks have a long series of 
adjustments and consultations and readjust- 
ments before they finally settle down on the 
47 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


fence-rail these hot nights. A few baby 
voices tired and fretful sound from mothers' 
arms. Weary children are called in from 
play. Mrs. Fitzgerald passed by the other 
night looking for her Mike, and apologised 
saying that she “ had such a cold she couldn’t 
half holler.” 

Horses stamp in the pasture or stable, lambs 
bleat, Kim creeps under the porch with a 
resurrected bone, which he gnaws voluptu- 
ously. 


I have heard that in China if one asks the 
time of day, any urchin will snatch up a cat, 
and tell by the look of its eye. It is not 
wonderful, for the dilation must vary every 
hour. It is only wonderful that the fact has 
not been noted here. 

Each added star in heaven must make a 
change in every eye toward which it shines — 
and so every flickering candle on earth. 

Perhaps our watching makes the stars and 
candles glow with a fuller light. It is said 
that a star passing over the emerald mines of 
Ytoco becomes brighter, “ like the moon six 
days old.” I wonder if all the light of one’s 
eye might pass over into a star and leave him 
blind, as the lightning flash leaves its fire in 
48 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


the heart of the opal which forms where it 
strikes. 

Mr. Nelson and Mr. Kennedy both walked 
home from Mrs. Bennet’s with Amy. They 
talked at the gate a moment and Amy called, 
“ Are you there, Oudene ? ” 

I did not answer, but when she came and 
sat on my stool and put her head down on 
my knees and sobbed, I said : 

“ Ask them to call to-morrow evening, 
dear.” 


49 


X 


1 MISSED you yesterday. Somehow I 
feel sure that I never hurt you, however 
much you may be bored. I am always hurt- 
ing Amy, though I am sure I do not bore her. 

She was with me all the morning, hemming 
some napkins, and reading now and then. 
When she asked what she might read I called 
Abram and told him to go into the library and 
bring me a book. He came back with the 
“ Tatler,” holding it as if it were made of 
egg-shell, she said. She opened at random, as 
I bade her, and happened upon the story of a 
man who had been born blind, but had had his 
sight restored — which does not seem the right 
word — by an operation — a sort of vice versa 
to me. 

Looking up at the doctor he supposed the 
instruments he still held were part of his 
hands. Recognising his mother by her voice, 
he looked at her and groaned, “ Oh, me ! are 
you my mother ? ” 

“ Were you always thus happy,” he asked, 
50 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


“ when you said you were glad to see each 
other ? ” 

His “ Tom ” had to lead him still, and the 
physician recommended that his eyes be band- 
aged until he had learned gradually to use 
them, as he had once learned to use his hands 
and his feet. 

He asked “ how many there were in all to 
be seen.” 

The woman he loved came and wished to 
undo his eyes that he might see her, but he 
“ did not wish it done if it would destroy his 
love.” Poor thing, how could she tell ! 

He had wished for sight “ but to see you.” 
What would it mean to each if sight should 
prove to be disillusionment? Which of them 
would suffer more ? “ Why run the risk ? ” 
she must have groaned within herself. 

Even our talk about that hurt Amy! 

I insisted upon sleeping in the afternoon. 
I really did drop asleep. Then I went out 
to the Club — walked out — to the Pincian 
Gardens ! 

Homer is not old — not so old as Cupid, 
even. On the whole, he is jollier than Cupid 
— heaps more fun. 

I’m really surprised to find Cupid so serious. 
He rarely has such a frolic as the other night. 
5i 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


He told me, himself, that he had been found 
fault with till he was spoiled. I asked him 
if he had been shooting over our way lately, 
thinking of Amy. 

“ How do I know,” he said, “ am I not 
blind ? ” with a sort of touchy, chip-on-the- 
shoulder air, as if he expected to be scolded. 

Really, it is fortunate that he is blind. 
There are so many “ No Trespass ” signs up, 
he would not know where to shoot if he could 
see them. They used to punish poachers in 
England by putting out their eyes. I wonder 
if he lost his by any such crime. 

He has his regular beat around the equator, 
and makes side trips whenever he can arrange. 
He has promised a Mother’s Club in New 
York to be in Newport to-morrow. 

He gets so tired! Poor little chap! He 
has not had a vacation he says since — I for- 
get when. He thinks if old Time would “ quit 
scything around” for a few weeks, he could 
rest. As it is he has hard work to keep 
things going. In some countries where he 
shoots most the pop — things seem to run 
down fastest. 

That is what dwarfed him. Being put to 
work so young he never had time for his 
growing pains. 


52 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


No. I’ve not told you about the call. I 
only half kept my promise after all. I let 
Mr. Nelson come out and talk with me in 
the dark while Amy entertained Mr. Kennedy 
in the library. However, they are coming 
again. Mr. Kennedy has not to go back so 
soon as I feared. Mr. Nelson says he “ may 
never return to India.” I am not surprised. 
“ Nor I,” Amy laughed when I told her. She 
has not admitted so much before. Was it an 
admission ? 

Now may I tell about our Newton home? 
I do not mean to get off the track so. 

The road in front of our house ran up hill 
toward the west, through the village and then 
down gradually to the railroad station a mile 
away. At the top of the hill, a hundred rods 
or so beyond our house, it passed the new 
store on the left, crossed Lanesborough 
Street, and passed between the Common and 
the great brick tavern on the right. This 
tavern had been once a famous stopping place 
for coaches on their way from Albany to 
Montreal. 

The old store was on the further side of 
the Common. Next it, north, was the great 
white meeting house with a broken halo of 
horse-sheds, each stall owned by some “ mem- 
53 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


ber.” The old pioneers had come from 
Lanesborough, Connecticut and laid out wide 
streets, to remind them of home, and planted 
elms before Arbor Day was invented. 

To the east, our road ran on down the hill 
a little way, crossed a bridge constructed of 
two logs and three planks, ran between Mr. 
Parents’s blacksmith shop and Mr. Brunell’s 
shoe-shop — improper children left off the 
“ Mister ” — and on up the long hill, by Scrate 
Coy’s where it seemed to come straight out 
of the blue heaven. 

It was a clay road, dusty in Summer, 
fathomless mud during the Spring and 
Autumn, glorious white squeaky snow for full 
three months. 

Teamsters drove by toward the station all 
day long with logs from the mountains, some- 
times stretching away back from their long 
carts, and sometimes with the hind wheels 
dislocated and coming where the next team 
should have been. Sometimes the men had 
time to find me a bit of spruce gum while the 
horses rested. One often did. 

When the roads were very muddy and the 
horses legs looked pitifully short, the men 
whipped them cruelly and said dreadful words 
54 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


— as father did when he preached — only it 
was not wicked for him. 

The roots of the elm trees before our house 
were coiled into beautiful seats. On one, just 
by the gate, I used to sit hours at a time and 
watch the tragedy and pray God to help the 
poor horses pull. I asked mother if He could 
and she said “ Of course.’’ 


I told you we had a garden east of our 
house? At the far foot of it was a little cot- 
tage reeking with tobacco smoke. I used to 
be sent with flowers in pots, down for the 
plants to be “ smoked.” Two Canadians lived 
there, “ old man Akey ” and “ Mom Akey ” 
his wife. He was rheumatic and went on two 
canes held far before him — of unequal length 
and different “ bents.” At a distance he was 
a quadruped which might have nonplussed 
the very elect. 

Mom Akey used to wash for us, retiring at 
intervals to her domicile for a pull at her little 
black pipe, which had given her an under lip 
like an elephant. She was very much in need 
of patronage and in her anxiety to please, she 
would say at mother’s every approach, “ You 
mad, Mom Adams ? ” 


55 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


In such mood, and with such an interroga- 
tion, I find myself frequently, albeit uncon- 
sciously, approaching the Mercy-Seat. Poor 
old soul! 


One night some wicked men came to steal 
our grapes. I was asleep but father slipped 
down from his study and ran out very quietly 
to catch them. He did not, though. He 
laughed about it at breakfast time, because one 
of the men ran hard against a board fence 
and fell “ prone on his back ” as Kenneth 
Graham says. He was grunting on the ground 
when father came home — not wishing to 
know who they were. Next day the man told 
somebody that “ the minister ran like the 
devil.” I heard father telling mother, and 
had to reconstruct my devilology. I did not 
know he could run. I had always seen him 
in the air, flying. 

We had Bunyan’s Complete Works, but al- 
ways called them the Devil Books, they were 
so full of him. On the “ holy Sabbath ” they 
were our chief resource for entertainment, and 
he the charm of them. I caught him running 
in one place when I hunted it out. 


XI 


I ’M so glad you are back. 

Oh, my dear ! It was not half so bad as I 
thought! Mrs. Bennet came with them, just 
after dark, and I called to them all to “ Come 
and shake hands with the hermit.” They 
came laughing and chatting and shook hands 
with “ Mrs. De Lon.” “ Mrs. De Lon ” and 
“ Oudene, dear.” I could not tell in the con- 
fusion whose hand was whose. 

“ Just smell those lindens!” Mrs. Bennet 
exclaimed. There is only one but it fills the 
air these days. 

“ You make these vines do wonders, Amy,” 
she continued, and then went on to tell of 
some Bougainvillea she had seen at Terni in 
Sicily. The hot baths are in the basement, 
little white marble rooms, opening into a 
square court, of white marble too, whose glass 
roof was fairly loaded with masses of vines 
through «>which the sun poured. The colour 
varied from the faintest lavender to the deep- 
est purple according to the density of the 
mass. 


5 7 . 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


“ I saw it at Malta/’ said the strange voice, 
“ and have not yet decided whether the blue 
sea or the green foliage or the cascades of 
purple are more becoming to the warm brown 
of Maltese stone.” 

“ Is Malta all one colour ? ” asked Mr. 
Nelson. 

“ Yes,” he replied, “ all a warm sunny 
brown. Houses and fort and churches and 
walls and roads are made of the rock, which 
is beautiful enough of itself, and quite intoxi- 
cating when it combines with the blue or green 
or purple. It never allows any two of these 
to approach each other.” 

They seemed to forget me altogether and I 
enjoyed it all extremely. I do not know why, 
I had supposed that if I were present they 
would feel that they must entertain me. How 
egotistical one gets, when shut away! Those 
old anchorities must have felt exceedingly im- 
portant. 


We had a letter last night from a friend — 
Mrs. Roscoe. It was written to Amy though 
I was always the one who kept up the cor- 
respondence. Now that confidences are im- 
possible, it does not matter to which of us 
letters are written. 


58 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


She sails in the “ Slavic ” Saturday, over 
the route Jack and I took to Gibraltar and 
Naples and the Azores. After we got over I 
wrote back about sailing the Spanish Main 
and was taken to task for not knowing that 
that disreputable sheet of water was in the 
Western Hemisphere. I could have proved 
that the Spanish Main was not water at all, 
but the mainland, and I would have done so if 
I had not known that the opposite theory 
could be proved too. So I let it drop. 

Oh! those waves! and the long, long path- 
way of light from wave-tip to wave-tip, 
straight to the sun by day and the moon by 
night ! — as there is a straight line which leads 
to any kind of light we see with any kind of 
eyes. “ Straight and narrow ” compared to 
the broad reaches of darkness in which one 
might wander if he chose. 

I sat on deck and watched that stretch of 
glory until I felt the throb of the Largo, and 
saw at the farthest end the four and twenty 
elders in trailing robes, with their crowns still 
on, approaching the Presence. Of course, I 
only saw their backs. 

We had some very pleasant and many plain 
passengers but only one disagreeable one. 
She was anything but plain. She had an 

59 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


artistic nature and hoped to “ drop little help- 
ful words ” as she said she always did. One 
of the people who “ daub their souls over 
everything ” — some Frenchman says. I hope 
Mrs. Roscoe will be spared such a trial. 

She will get over safely, I am sure. And if 
not — if He holds the ocean in the hollow of 
His hand, it can’t be so very bad, even at the 
bottom. 

Do I believe in fore-ordination? Of course 
I do. It is my one comfort now — better 
than Kismet and Karma combined. Of course 
there are paradoxes. They are everywhere, 
and the higher the altitude of thought the more 
of them. 

My friend, Edith Nolan, in the Rivington 
Street Settlement had a talk with an old 
Scotch woman in a tenement on Forsythe 
Street. After a longer call than she had 
meant to make, she said laughingly, watching 
for a chance to get away: “You believe in 
Election, don’t you ! ” 

There was no laughter in the earnest re- 
sponse : 

“Yes, Miss, I do. If I did not believe I 
was elected I’d get straight down on me two 
knees and I’d niver stop praying till I was.” 

60 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


That is the kind of election I believe in, 
paradox and all. I heard Amy discussing the 
matter with Mr. Nelson out in the lawn chairs 
last evening when they were trying to plan 
for old drunken Pete’s wife. Mr. Kennedy 
came later from Mrs. Bennet’s and helped it 
on. They seemed to consider it a Christian 
doctrine, but he proved that it belonged to 
every religion. As he said these two para- 
doxical planks in all creeds are like the Pillars 
of Hercules — on two different continents of 
truth, one human and the other divine but they 
both rest on the same subterranean and sub- 
marine stratum of truth, out of our sight. 

I wondered myself if Mr. Kennedy liked al- 
ways finding Mr. Nelson and his parish 
troubles here. 

Oh, not always, of course, but he came 
oftener while you were away. Amy enjoys 
his calls and encourages him to come. 

He has an Indian servant with him. I 
presume the man sleeps outside his door every 
night as ours used to do. Abram’s opinion ^ 
of the “ black heathen” is worth hearing — > 
and his effort to teach him Bible truths, and _ 
convince him of the exact fulfilment of 
Daniel’s prophecy is worth overhearing. 

61 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


I wonder, if I were a horse would I hate 
blinders or check-reins more? 

And why do the Egyptians and Syrians 
blind the oxen that draw their water and 
thresh their grain? The old Jews who were 
forbidden to muzzle the ox, that trod out the 
corn, may have hit upon blinding them as 
a matter of economy. Samson might know. 

They could not snatch up mouthfuls if they 
could not see. One would think a blind crea- 
ture would never wish to eat. Yet, I can 
imagine a blind ox taking a “ sight of com- 
fort ” with his cud. A blind lion would be 
mighty helpless and lonely. 

When we were children father took pity on 
an old blind horse that had been turned out 
to die by the wayside. He named him after 
Sidney Smith’s “ Calamity.” It took refuge 
in our front yard for several days and father 
would not let us drive it out. At last mother 
was so out-done she had Pete put him back 
in our tiny pasture and John and Hal cut half 
a bushel of spikes off the lower part of the 
trunk of the old thorn trees in the corner so 
he would not keep running against them. 


62 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


The Club had to meet often when you were 
gone. Cupid and I get on beautifully. He 
says he likes to talk and few people care to 
listen. When he gets his “ stent ” done, — 
I can’t get him to say “ stint,” — he often 
comes along even when there is no meeting. 

Jupiter requires him to shoot just so many 
times a day and he has but a thousand arrows 
in all. That is the reason he has wings. He 
has to pick up every arrow he shoots off and 
keep them in repair. That’s why there is so 
much sameness to love stories. He has to 
use the same arrow over and over and there 
can’t be much variety. 

I remember that the Indian Cupid is always 
represented as attended by a parrot — so 
they’ve noticed the sameness too. 

It was rather a delicate question, but while 
we were on the subject I asked Cupid why 
he had never married, himself. He replied 
that he had never had time — and shoe- 
makers sometimes went as bare as their chil- 
dren. 

When I asked — had he never happened to 
prick himself with his arrows, he said, “ Oh, 
yes. Ask Psyche ! ” But after eighty or 
ninety years they have practically little ef- 
fect. 


63 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


He has to be careful not to hit people who 
are too young. If he does it sort of vacci- 
nates them and after that it won’t “ take,” or 
they have only some kind of an — oid. 

I could hear that he was working away all 
the time that he talked — ■“ Putting new 
feathers on some arrows,” he said. 

“ Dove feathers ? ” I asked. 

“ No, goose feathers,” he replied, and some- 
times, he has to hunt for them like the 
Egyptian Jews for straw, which takes time. 

He used to save the feathers from his own 
wings when he moulted, but everybody that 
was hit pulled off the feather and began to 
write poetry with it — for which, in a way, 
he felt responsible. 

“ Don’t they write just the same with the 
goose-quills?” I asked, and he said, “ Yes, but 
it is not as likely to be printed and circulated 
and set everybody else on the qui vive to be 
shot and write poetry too.” They soon tire 
and throw away the quills and he can use 
them again. Of course, the next man hit 
writes the same stuff over, but he can’t help 
that. 

I tried to write a poem myself once, but I 
did not tell him. I had to give it up. I could 
not get “ lilt ” in, any way I could twist it. 

64 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


Then I tried a sort of prose poem to work in 
“ strenuous ” or “ banal ” but I could not do 
that. When a word is epidemic, that way, 
it looks affected to leave it out, so I did not 
try to finish it. 


«5 


XII 


G OOD morning. Amy has gone with Mr. 

Kennedy for a drive. I wonder Mr. 
Nelson did not think it necessary to chaperone 
them ! It is not nice of me to say that, for he 
spent an hour reading to me yesterday while 
they were chatting in the library. 

Mr. Kennedy is quieter than I fancied him, 
but, as Amy says, he is very entertaining and I 
have a long list of questions I mean to ask 
him about India. How Jack and I used to 
plan for our trip there ! I always wanted to 
see mother’s home in Madura, and our Grand- 
mother’s grave. When I was very little I 
meant to be a missionary and cried when I 
was put to bed and remembered that the 
heathen would probably all be converted be- 
fore I was big enough to go. I went to 
ladies’ missionary meetings with mother just 
to hear them tell how many were left, and 
when conversions were too frequent I came 
home in a very low “ frame.” 

Jack used to hear from Mr. Kennedy now 

66 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


and then, but when his ship was finally given 
up there was always a tatter of hope and no 
one wrote me the usual letters — how could 
they! 

What a frightfully cruel thing Hope is. I 
mean to have a real talk with her in the Club 
sometime and see if I cannot understand her 
better. 

We all had tea together. When the water 
was almost boiling, Mr. Kennedy remarked 
that it was in the first of three stages of boil- 
ing, as the Chinese say when the little bubbles 
rise to the surface which they call “ fish-eyes. ,, 
I was so struck at the queer comparison that 
I leaned forward to look at them, and then 
pretended that I had dropped my fan. Just 
nervously, I said, “ That is an easy way to 
make eyes.” I was so vexed at myself ! It is 
the very first reference. 

“ The Chinese,” he says, “ credit tea with 
all sorts of powers, to strengthen the will 
among others and repair the eye-sight.” 
Evidently he was nervous too! 

I drank three cups to test its powers and 
then remembered poor, old, blinking Dr. 
Johnson and decided all to myself that the 
climate of China must combine with the tea 
to produce the effect. 

6 7 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


Mr. Kennedy told us the pretty legend of 
the tea-plant — curious rather — you have not 
heard it? A Buddhist wished to give himself 
up to meditation for a certain period but con- 
stantly grew weary and fell asleep. When he 
woke, at last, he was so distressed that he cut 
off his two eyelids and “ cast them from him ” 
so that they might not offend again. When 
he had completed his vigil his eyes were quite 
restored, and from the lids which he had 
thrown away had grown the first tea plants 
— whose leaves should furnish a drink to 
help holy men when the temptation to sleep 
came upon them. 

I made Amy find the passage about eyes 
which offend and have to be plucked out, and 
then that eye-for-eye and tooth-for-tooth place. 
It does not say one must take an eye for an 
eye — but that one must not take more. It 
would be so easy if a man knocked out one 
of your teeth to knock out three or four of 
his! We have to be limited to the exact 
number, which requires self-control and such 
deliberation that one would almost surely for- 
give the injury before he had inflicted the 
penalty. 

Why is it that while all our laws are based 
on old Mosaic principles, Moses allowed for 
68 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


forgiveness and we do not? Every minutest 
offence has its penalty all measured off even 
to “ alienation of affection.” That does 
amuse Cupid ! By the way, the Bible does not 
say to turn the other eye also — only the 
cheek. 


Now are you ready to write? 

In winter there were deep caverns between 
the fences and the snow-drifts, which curved 
over like the front of the sleigh. As I re- 
member, they were blue inside. We could 
play in them whenever the crust was hard so 
we would not slump in. We crossed the 
meadow to get to the best ones — the 
meadow that the brook ran through. There 
were great patches of ice in the winter and 
of yellow cowslips in the spring. I was quite 
proud that I could make the biggest cracks 
in the ice when I fell down — with the back 
of my head. It hurt temporarily but the 
glory of it was permanent. 

My head was stronger than my neck. I 
was always sure of that after an incident that 
occurred two or three years after we went to 
Newton. 

It was the dead of winter and there was 
only a tiny path in the snow, set up on edge 

69 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


and if you stepped up upon the bank of 
snow beside it you sank almost out of sight. 
We never shovelled paths in those days, they 
just grew somehow from people going for the 
mail and for lamp chimneys. 

Mr. Hinman was very rich and he had 
never spoken to me before. That day when 
I met him he called me “ dearie ” and patted 
my “ pretty red cheeks ” and before I could 
say Jack Robinson he took me by the two 
sides of my head and swung me around be- 
hind him so neither of us got into the snow. 

I thought how kind he was to speak to me 
so, but I was sorry my neck was not stronger, 
it ached quite hard. For a long time I could 
not look side ways with my neck at all — 
only with my eyes. Years after I hated him. 

Often and often I wish Alice or Margaret 
could have lived to talk these old times over 
with me. John went as a missionary to China 
and died, and Hal is so busy he only writes 
once or twice a year. He has been in Eng- 
land these twenty years — never married. 
Arthur and Amy can’t remember back to the 
time of my real childhood and Amy won’t let 
me remember about some things — the dona- 
tion among others. But it certainly took place 
70 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


and I remember as if it were last night, that 
father carried Alice home, asleep in his arms, 
while mother ran along beside and tried to 
keep her legs covered up with the shawl. 
Sleigh-bells were jingling as the late arrivals 
came — for the biggest fun was after the min- * 
ister was gone home. 

Mother used not to mind when I reminded 
her of old times but I did not think about them 
so much then. I used to threaten to write a 
book about “ We Children and Our Parish ” 
and even put down a list of things to remem- 
ber. They are in my desk still, in the big 
blank-book pigeon-hole at the left. Some- 
time I’ll get you to look for them, if Amy has 
not burned up desk and all — as I told her to 
do on one of my ugly days. 


Did you ever stand in the middle of a corn- 
field early in July, pr even in October when 
the corn was cut, and notice how the 
straight rows of corn form the spokes of 
a wheel ? There are four perpendicular 
rows, and four diagonal ones, only they are 
perpendicular, too, and between each of these 
another that does not reach you but is quite 
plain in the distance — sixteen in all. 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


Wherever you move there is another wheel 
just like it and you feel like the eye in the 
Sicilian or Manx coat of arms, like a hub 
or an omphalos. 


72 


XIII 


O H, my dear, my dear! I so hoped you 
would not come and I am so glad you 
are here ! 

Such a dreadful, foolish, stupid thing hap- 
pened ! 

Are you sure Amy is gone? I would not 
have her guess for all the gold in Peru. No 
one must know, because it was only a mistake 
— a poor, foolish, masculine mistake! 

Men are really more apt to lose their bal- 
ance than we. 

I was just getting to feel so comfortable 
and at home with the few people I am as 
yet willing to see, and this comes ! 

What? I’ll tell you. But I must begin 
back. 

I had been worrying about Amy after you 
went, not on account of anything she said but 
what she had not said. Such a long silence 
made me fear they were depending upon an 
understanding. It is well enough for the man 
but a woman has no right to understand until 
73 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


it is said. I do not see how Corinne ever 
had patience with her shilly-shallying Oswald. 
Such women spoil men and then write books 
to spoil women — to suggest to them that 
they can “ understand ” other men, on equally 
imaginary evidence. 

Then poor Mr. Nelson, who is blinder than 
— I am, came one day and asked me a ques- 
tion I need not repeat. It seems he had 
hopes — evidently, he was mw-understanding. 
In spite of my assurance of goodwill, when I 
shook hands with him he said: 

“ You are sorry for me, I fear?” 

“ Oh, no!” I said, “I’d not be so unkind 
as to be sorry for anyone.” I am sure he did 
not say anything to Amy for she seemed as 
care-free as ever, happier, if possible. 

The most she said was the night Mr. Ken- 
nedy returned after his long visit in New 
York. At bed-time she asked : 

“Isn’t it nice to see Mr. Kennedy back, 
Oudene ? ” 

Bless her dear heart! She never meant to 
say that and having let the word slip, she 
threw herself into my arms and sobbed as she 
had not before. 

Poor child ! Her nerves get quite un- 
strung. Mr. Nelson has let her do too much 
74 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


parish work. Mr. Kennedy says he is “ going 
to speak to Nelson ” about that. 

But I have not told you. Last night, while 
I sat by the window — inside, for it was cold 
— Mr. Kennedy came in unannounced, sat 
down in the stiff chair by me, and “ offered 
himself” as they say — to me!” 

I do not even know that Amy does not 
know. 

My only thought was of her, and I could 
not let him suspect that. I cannot detect the 
least difference in her. Her voice sounds as 
gay as ever, and she put the same little funny 
turns into her morning directions to Abram 
when she could not have known that I 
heard. 

I am glad that I cannot look into her face. 
It seems the crudest treachery, when another 
has anything to hide, to detect it by a glance, 
however involuntarily. 

There was not one throb in my heart of 
disloyalty to her, and only a feeling of pity 
for him that he should have fancied me so 
in need of him that it would be worth while 
for him to make the effort — and that things 
were tangled for Amy, even temporarily. 

I have heard the phrase “ offered himself ” 
when I imagined an anaconda offering it- 
75 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


self to a kid, promising to be true “ till death 
do us part ” — or unite. 

Mr. Kennedy would give himself in a way 
and sense that any woman would be proud 
of. With his strength and truth and loyalty 
she would never miss the love if it were 
absent. 

How we deceive ourselves! He had been 
quite honest in his — wooing, could you call 
it ? And yet, I knew the shade of relief in his 
voice when he tried to insist. 

“ Wisdom at one entrance is quite shut 
out,” as Milton says, “but there is a higher 
wisdom than that of sight. I was a seer, 
though blind.” I’m sure he knows it and 
thanks God already. It was only a tangle, 
there is not a broken thread, if only we do 
not break one getting the tangle out. 

Now we must write — though I have a lot 
of Club nonsense to tell you. We had a 
kimono meeting this morning just before sun- 
rise. We do not care much about each other’s 
costumes. I suggested a trip to the North 
Cape on some house-boat or in a balloon, 
not for the scenery but a change of air. 

Cupid went into one of his pets at that. 

“ No one remembers,” said he, “ that my 

76 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


wings are not very warm, and that I’ve noth- 
ing to wear but my bandage.” 

He does not go into the latitudes any higher 
than he can help, and tries to get over his 
northern territory in the summer months as 
much as possible. He starts north in May 
or June and goes back in October. He was 
surprised that we’d not noticed it, since the 
poets have harped on it ad nauseam . 

Once in a while he makes a rush into the 
north at Christmas time or when there is a 
ball or concert or house-party to warm things 
up a bit. 

He never attempted a sleigh-ride but once, 
when he was hidden among the furs, and that 
was a failure. The young man held the 
chaperone’s hand all the way by mistake. 
Since that his Summer work has to last 
through the Winter. 

“If they are not satisfied let them come 
south, where I am,” he concluded, and many 
of them do. It is really a good thing for 
them, and also for the tropic-ites, who used 
to get too much of his attention. 

Finally we went down into Egypt. There 
he and Homer began a conversation which 
grew into a discussion and ended in a dis- 
pute. Homer quoted something from his 
77 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


works, as any poet is likely to do. It nettled 
Cupid, though he is as likely to think well of 
himself as any of us, and he “ humphed ” 
and said he “ would a great sight ” — as if he 
had sight to wager ! — “a great sight rather 
have people write poetry about him than to 
write, himself, about other people.” He 
fairly puffed up, and said he “ considered it a 
satisfactory compensation for all his labours 
and exposure that most of the poetry of the 
world had been written in his honour and half 
the prose. He stuck that on to be more 
aggravating though he knew it was not 
true. 

Homer did not argue with him, though he 
came nearer to a sneer than I supposed he 
could when he said it might be true, but that 
it showed bad taste, and he never set such 
a fashion. He wrote about adventures and 
wars and wrath. Cupid nudged me, and 
asked if he remembered a lady named 
Chryseis or Briseis, and a girl called Helen? 

Homer never answered — just went off in 
a huff — and Cupid rolled over and laughed 
till we had to snatch him from falling into 
the water or getting under the oxen’s hoofs — 
the blinded ones that were turning the water 
wheels. How I’d love to hear one creak 1 
78 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


I haven’t finished about that meeting yet — . 
I came near calling it a seance, seeing that 
some of us were ghosts, but a seance would 
be stupid for me. 

Cupid does not seem to be afraid of anyone. 
Anchises was there, and being as he is a kind 
of an uncle of Cupid’s, he attempted to re- 
prove him for being so disrespectful to 
Homer. He began by telling him what a good 
boy his brother Aeneas had always been. He 
asked him to compare Aeneas’ pious treat- 
ment of himself and Cupid’s treatment of his 
mother — whom he was “ always getting into 
trouble.” 

Cupid got the best of it, for he asked where 
his precious Aeneas would have been if he 
had not. 

Cupid gets so tired of having Aeneas 
“ thrown up to him ! ” He asked Venus once 
how many sons like Aeneas, she and Anchises, 
or anyone else, had expected to have. 

To change the subject, I asked Anchises! 
where Venus was the night of the fire in Troy 

— why she did not pay more attention to her 
family. He replied very cheerfully, though 
it was evidently an effort that it happened 
just when she was expecting Adonis up from 

— where is it he spends his winters? — so she 

79 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


was engaged. Besides, she and Creusa were 
not any too good friends. 

I am ashamed of myself, frittering away 
all this time ! Between nonsense and gossip 
I forget what I started out to do. Then 
there is the reading! 

It was a strange conceit of the Old Egyp- 
tians that men have two pairs of eyes, and 
that it is “ requisite that the pair which are 
beneath be closed, when the pair that are 
above perceive, and that when the pair that 
are above are closed, those beneath should 
be opened.” 

I wish they had told us the functions of the 
different pairs, and from which they received 
greater good. 

I wonder if I have an undiscovered pair 
beneath, which are, or may be opened? Are 
they the ones with which I still see all that 
I have seen? For I lose faith in Oblivion as 
time goes on and these absolutely stupid and 
inane memories come creeping back into the 
light, from their dark corners. Fancy! I 
remembered the other day that I used to gather 
up the rinds from the plates after we had 
bacon or fried pork, and hide them behind 
the front doorstep where there was a crack 
80 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


barely big enough for my hand, whence I got 
them when the spirit prompted, for maxillary 
exercise ! 

How old could I have been? I shiver with 
the fear that I may remember other things 
equally distressing. Let’s change the subject. 


81 


XIV 


G OOD morning, Miss Ames. The weeks 
have seemed very long without you, but 
I am glad you went — more glad that your 
sister is recovered, partially at least. 

Nothing has happened since you went away. 
Our little trouble is quite forgotten. 

We are so happy! Sometimes I feel as if 
I had crept into a cask when I took that ether 
and gone over my Niagara and been bumping 
about in the whirlpool ever since, but am now 
happily released. Mr. Kennedy’s mistake was 
the shock that threw me up on the bank, and 
now I am escaped and find my eyes wide 
open — my other eyes. 

We all understand each other and I hardly 
remember that I am deprived of the most im- 
portant antennae with which one usually feels 
his way. Amy talks to me again, as she used, 
about Mr. Kennedy — who has to go over 
to Berlin on business next week — and I was 
never so thankful for her solid sense as now. 
Mr. Nelson has recovered his equilibrium and 
82 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


enters into all their happiness. Really, my- 
self, I am half persuaded that it is a question 
whether celibacy be not a good thing for a 
clergyman. It gives him far more hold on 
the young people, especially the young ladies 
who need to be steadied now and then. 

Mr. Kennedy, when time hangs heavy on 
his hands, reads to me and takes me to India 
and frolics all over my mythology with me 
whenever I please. He helps Amy with her 
church work and says he is a candidate for 
vestry-man! I told him last night that while 
he was away, I feared, I should back-slide and 
forget my various religions. When I asked 
how long he was to be gone, he replied that 
it “ all depended.” I was sorry on the in- 
stant for my question implied that he almost 
belonged here — which he does not at all. 


No, I am not more tired than usual. Did 
you ever wonder why the ostrich egg should 
be hung in churches and used as an ornament 
and as a symbol of faith? I asked Faith one 
day and she said it was because the ostrich 
hatched its eggs by faith — merely gazing 
upon them, to see her faith accomplished. I 
demurred on the ground that that was rather 
83 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


a sign of hope, but she resented the suggestion 
almost vehemently. 

Sometimes I think she seems to look down 
upon Hope, but a sister could not do that. 
Hope certainly admires her , and I cannot 
think she would usurp any of her prerogatives. 

Hope is one of those pliant yielding crea- 
tures who “ give ” at the least pressure, and 
yet are as stubborn as the everlasting hills. 
You may meet and confute any argument she 
presents, and she may admit herself out-done, 
but there she will be the next hour smiling 
at you and as firmly ensconced as ever in her 
corner. 


84 


XV 


/~\ H ! I must tell you ! I had a brilliant idea 
to-day. I suppose it was thinking about 
that Picciola story, and the prisoner in the 
dark dungeon who had a pin which he used 
to throw away and then hunt for. 

I asked Amy if I might have a pan of pease 
and one bean. She sent Abram for them and 
then came to see what I was going to use them 
for. I mixed the bean in with the pease and 
then set to work to find it again. I was 
happy and excited for an hour to think that I 
had real work I could do at last. 

I found the bean one and a half times, and 
would have finished if Mrs. Andrus had not 
come to call. 


85 


XVI 


S UNDAY again, and I was afraid you 
might be detained. Mrs. Arnold sent for 
Amy half an hour ago and I was just getting 
tired of myself and wondering if it would be 
right for me to get my pease to-day. 

The day has been so beautiful! Amy says 
that the sermon was more helpful than usual, 
although she is quite extravagant about ad- 
miring Mr. Nelson’s sermons. I suspect 
sometimes that she hopes that I will be will- 
ing to go and hear them. I never detected 
any effort to give me a hit through their in- 
strumentality — only a desire to get me to 
go out. 

This morning made me think of Nydia. 
She came along just after the bells were 
through tolling, and wanted me to go for a 
walk. We were in Pompeii, she said, and 
she knew every rut in the stones, and whose 
doorstep I was stumbling on every few steps. 
She told me histories of all the people whose 
holes they found in the ashes — whose nega- 
tives they have in the museums. 

86 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


After a time we strolled away from the en- 
trance to the modem ruins — that sounds 
queer! — turned to the left and followed the 
road Jack and I drove over once, to the old 
amphitheatre. We climbed the little hill to 
the left and sat down with our backs to the 
smoking demon, as she called it, between us 
and Naples. 

Our faces were turned to the south, where 
we knew, across the valley, lay the long line 
of hills with the blue dado of mist stretched 
along their feet. 

Nydia remembered it all, better than I, of 
course. She was there when it was crowded 
with half-clad or long robed men. It was 
the only place where she had ever been grate- 
ful for her blindness. Many girls of her age 
had fainted, those dreadful days and been car- 
ried away in their palanquins. 

After a time we forgot that it was all a 
ruin, and she told me a strange story, sitting 
there in the sunshine. 

When she was a child, too small to be kept 
strictly in the women’s quarters, a man came 
to see her father one day, a soldier. She had 
shown me her father’s little reception room 
by the outer door as we went over her old 
home. 


87 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


The soldier seemed old to her then, but he 
was probably not long past military age. He 
had served in many lands but his first service 
had been in the new province of Judea. 

Curiously enough, he was sent back there 
for a year just before he was mustered out 
and had helped in the siege and destruction 
of Jerusalem — he called it some other name. 
Seeing the little blind child made him remem- 
ber that during his first years there, some 
very strange incidents had occurred. There 
had been a young fellow about who worked 
very wonderful cures. He had himself been 
present when he restored sight to a man, who 
had been born blind. 

There was some dispute about it and a 
kind of investigation. 

His father and mother would not vouch for 
it at all, though they stuck to it that he 
was their son and that he had really been 
born blind. Very naturally, they did not 
want to be humbugged any more than the 
rest. 

He — the soldier — meant to go and talk to 
the man who did it but there were games or 
drills or something else, always, to prevent, 
and the man was only in Jerusalem off and on. 

We talked a long time of how it would 

88 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


seem to have someone happen along who 
should do that for us ! 

She says she never talked with Bartimaeus 
— or even heard his name. It is just a mat- 
ter of accident, meeting in our Club. You see, 
we can’t very well hunt each other out. 

After she went it was a bit lonely. 

When I feel quite deserted I repeat Jack’s 
favourite sentence from Xenophon. “ There 
is no speed with which one can out-run the 
gods, no inaccessible height to which one can 
flee from them, no darkness in which he can 
hide from their eyes.” 

It is such a comfort on a fast train or up a 
giddy elevator ! And here in my Outer 
Darkness ! Sometimes I am almost afraid 
He can’t see me, any more than I can see 
Him — but then, I know better. 

“ Though one make his bed in hell,” he is 
not banished the Presence. Hell can’t be very 
bad, if He is there. Old Xenophon’s threat 
is my one comfort. 

“ Hades ” they tell me, means either “ not 
seeing ” or “ not seen.” I hope it is the first. 
I must think about it. 

“ Even there shall thine eye see me ” — 
doesn’t it say? 


89 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


We miss Mr. Kennedy dolefully — espe- 
cially Mr. Nelson. Theirs is quite a rare 
friendship, although Mr. Kennedy is so much 
older, or because he is so much older. 

Mr. Nelson has a letter from him. He had 
a comfortable passage — had not gone on to 
Berlin but was to leave Paris that night. He 
had met Mrs. Emerald Sutton — Helen 
Richards that was, you remember — whose 
husband is ordered to the Philippines. She 
was so surprised to hear about me, and “ be- 
lieved she would run over for six months or 
so.” She was with her husband in Honolulu 
last winter, but says she draws the line at the 
Line. The Hathorns are her cousins and al- 
ways delighted to see her. She is very enter- 
taining. 

Miss Wilson stayed an hour yesterday. 

I wish people would not ask me if I have 
read this or that. If I have I tell them with- 
out being questioned. I probably have not. 

They began writing books so long before I 
was born that I have not caught up. Now I 
never shall. 

I got a bad start too. I really never did 
read books properly. Father said “ Yes ” 
when I asked if I might have for my very own 
any books in his library which I would read 
90 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


through. I thought about it very seriously. 
There was the big dictionary. I knew that if 
I did not begin with that and be done with it, 
I should be dreading it all the time and get 
no good out of anything. So I did, but never 
even finished the preface. I really think that 
that attempt and failure was a calamity. It 
might not have been if I had not persisted in 
feeling guilty about it — but I did. 

That set me off wrong, and I seem always 
to have been reading the things I should not, 
and leaving unread the things I should have 
read — till there is no sense in me, only odds 
and ends and multiplying stores which I could 
not use or assimilate. 

I liked almanacs and scrap-books and notes 
to big books that no one reads the body to. 
Every interesting thing is in notes and their 
charm grows and grows after the book is out 
of date. 

How should I have known what colour the 
King of Troy wore on Mondays, or on Tues- 
days or any other day, but for the footnotes ; 
or who was Admetus’ hired man ; or about the 
wooden Jupiter in Crete who had no ears — 
like Baal, I presume; or how somebody or 
other told a sculptor that he was wise to cover 
his Venus with jewels and “make her rich 
9i 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


since it was not in his power to make her 
beautiful? Heaps of things one never learns, 
but from notes. 

Yes, I am quite concerned about Amy. I 
suppose I may speak to you about it — if she 
did. 

She came into my room last night and sat 
down between me and the window. I like to 
know what she is looking at, and she said, 
“ The clouds.” 

There seemed to be no wind, but they were 
chasing across the moon quite madly. I 
asked if they had the same faint rainbow 
edges, when they caught the fullest light and 
she said “ Yes.” I could see them myself 
after that. 

I suspected that she had something on her 
mind and had that sort of Damocles feeling 
I used to have when Bert Moore held me up 
in the air on our old teeter-board and threat- 
ened to jump off. I never screamed, though. 

Amy sat still a long time, moving over so 
she could poor my hand. That is a strange 
word — as if a caress had pity in it, as a mat- 
ter of course, like the Hawaiian “Aloha.” 

Then she played with my hair, and said 
foolish things about it, and counted the “ seven 
92 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


points of beauty,” of which two are wholly 
imaginary. 

I suspected from the first that she was 
thinking about — wished to speak about Mr. 
Kennedy and did not quite like to begin. So 
I began — asking if she had not heard from 
him — and gave her a sort of start. 

After that there was no doubt in my mind 
about her feeling. She appreciates him too, 
I think. Mr. Nelson has spoken of that. 

When she was once off she said a good 
deal, more than she meant to, perhaps, about 
his fine mind, his delicacy of taste, his high 
ideals, his fund of information and experience. 
The phrases sounded very familiar. 

Then she started on a more tractable sub- 
ject, his fine looks and distinguished bearing, 
half oriental from his long residence in 
India. 

I was thinking more of her than of him, 
and good looks are not of so great importance 
now — in my eyes. 

You would laugh to know how near I came 
to being — I do not like to say jealous, unless 
you will remember that there are varieties of 
jealousy, and infinitesimal degrees of it. I do 
not suppose a woman ever loses her special 
feeling towards a man whom she respects, and 
93 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


who has once thought he cared for her, even 
temporarily. 

I chose Jack deliberately because I loved 
him. I did not prefer him to anyone else, 
for never before Jack’s time nor after did any- 
one offer me a choice. I could not say that 
I loved him better than any other. That 
would imply that I loved two. I only loved 
him, and chose him as truly as if I had had 
all others to choose from. 

Twice in my life I have dreamed about Mr. 
Kennedy. It is strange that I should remem- 
ber the exact number. 

Once, it was just after Jack and I were 
engaged. What queer things these involun- 
tary muscles in our minds are! And again, 
last year, just after — 

I told Jack the first dream, and when I 
awoke from the second I was telling it to him, 
also. I remember the dream only because 
Jack’s face was beaming so as he listened. 

I thank God so often for my dreams ; 
especially now when I see in them. Few 
people, I am sure, have such blessed ones. 
I suppose I am getting toward the time of life 
when one sees visions instead of dreaming 
mere common dreams. 

Jack seems to talk to me like some far away 

94 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


brother, whose face I usually see only as in 
a dull mirror. Of course I only see the vision, 
not him; and the things I tell him are like 
messages I send. 

Indeed, I do send messages to him, when I 
am not asleep. God has myriads — lacs of 
messengers. When I ask him to send just 
one of them to say just a few words for me 
I certainly know that he will do it. I have 
always and always sent messages to our little 
one. 


95 


XVII 


I AM afraid I must talk Club, this morning, 
my dear. We had such fun last night ! 
First, I had a quiet talk with Cupid. He 
says he used to have eyes. He was not born 
blind like a puppy. 

I told him that somebody — I could not 
think who at the time — had written some- 
where about someone’s finding a “ nestful of 
little squab Cupids.” Neither of us knew 
whether squabs were blind. Nydia had come 
along by that time. 

Cupid took our joking better than he does 
sometimes. He seems to like Nydia. She 
never knew before that he wore a bandage, 
and could not understand. It seems that he 
supposed we all wore them. He and Justice 
had often spoken of it, he said. 

Someone suggested that if he should get 
rid of his bandage and were not too fat, he 
might be able to see. Hope recommended a 
stricter diet. I think he was more inclined to 
resent that than to be cross about the squabs. 
I believe his blindness is a relief to Venus. 
96 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


She would not like to be spied upon by her 
own son. She’s not that kind. 

Justice hinted that “ some thought ” he 
might not have been blind at all if Venus 
had not kept his eyes done up so long. No 
investigation was ever made. Indeed, there 
was no society for Prevention of Cruelty to 
Children when Cupid was a — squab. (I 
suppose Raphael will be charged with painting 
little squab cherubims next.) 

Later in the evening Cupid had occasion to 
resent Samson’s calling him a Lustkind — 
though it was not a name of the strong man’s 
own invention. The “ lust of the eyes ” Cupid 
does not hold himself responsible for ; he 
thinks the Cupids and Phaetons and Buddhas 
in eyes were pure fiction. I told him they 
were really there visible to the naked eye. 

“ Why do people go about with their eyes 
naked ? ” he snapped. He did not mean it. 
He was just a bit snappy. Then on he went 
about clothes in general. Several of us 
had spoken of the heat. 

“ Why don’t they all wear bandages on their 
eyes ? ” he asked, “ and there’d be no need of 
clothes ? ” 

I urged that' they could not work then and 
support themselves and us. 

97 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 

“ They would not need to work, if they 
did not have to buy clothes,” he urged — 
forgetting, I suppose, our climate. 

There is something in his idea. The 
animal’s eyes are “ holden ” — which is the 
same as bandaged — and they do not have to 
wear whole suits of clothes to cover up all 
they are not pleased to consider face. They’re 
warm enough — at least they do not often 
freeze to death. 

Homer was late. 

We have all been careful not to let him 
know that any question had been raised as 
to his identity, so I was surprised and sorry 
to discover from a conversation which I over- 
heard between him and Milton that it had 
leaked out. I do not think that Milton has 
any professional jealousy, or that he would 
have twitted him of his doubtful honours if 
he had. 

Homer may have been indignant at first, — 
I did not hear the beginning of the conversa- 
tion, — but he had gotten over that when I 
joined them. 

He thought it remarkable, after he had been 
born in seven different cities to make sure of 
existence, that he should be reduced to thin 
air now. 

98 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


“ Other old writers multiply,” he argued. 
“ There was Moses, and there was Isaiah, 
there were half a dozen apiece to them, and 
Lord Bacon was a whole syndicate. He did 
not care to go to the other extreme and evap- 
orate altogether.” 

There is a good deal to be said as to the ad- 
vantages and disadvantages of double and 
fractional identity. 

When Homer was pushed he inclined to the 
opinion that he would rather share his own 
credit with someone else than have his reputa- 
tion increased by a lot of things he had never 
done. 

I forgot to tell him, as I meant to do, of 
the retort that one of his best friends made 
to a learned scholar who was criticising his 
Iliad. He told him to go on and say his worst, 
he could not do him any harm “ unless he 
should translate him.” 

Homer will enjoy that. He says, honestly, 
that some of his old friends deliberately de- 
stroyed their works, preferring oblivion to 
translation — secular translation, of course. 
He “ was not so thin-skinned,” and thinks he 
has had enough fun watching the trouble he 
has made, and the antics of his apologists to 
counterbalance the annoyance. 

99 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


He has, or pretends to have, great sympa- 
thy for English translators, especially since I 
showed him our new Dictionary. I told 
him most of the words were foreign or 
colloquial or provincial, vulgar or obsolete, 
or upstarts and variants, but we had to let 
the tares grow in our wheat or some other 
dictionary would get the most words. We 
do not actually put in every last one as it is, 
I said ; bowman was left out and satsuma and 
Apollinaris and perdy — 

“ In Greece,” he said, “ we never had any 
words that could not be used in poetry. That 
put poetry within every man’s reach.” 

“ Or we either ! ” I interrupted. “ You 
have not read our poets I must remind you. 
Poetry is within any man’s reach here, too.” 

I asked Milton and Ossian if they thought 
it would pay to get out an English dictionary 
of words that would bear a civil service test. 
It struck them favourably, providing some 
Hugo or Davis would get out a handbook 
that tramps and gamins and dialecticians 
could use. That would be easier for them 
to carry. 


ioo 


XVIII 


T^\IDN’T we get any reminiscences in 
yesterday? I don’t know that it is my 
fault any more than it is yours. You are as 
apt to lead me on as I to take the bit in my 
teeth and run away ! 

A letter from Helen Richards — Sutton — 
came this noon, and she says “ Mr. Kennedy 
went to Madrid yesterday.” We supposed he 
was going to Berlin or was in Dresden ! She 
is trying to get passage but the boats are all 
crowded. She finds a vacancy on the “ Attic ” 
but they are looking for something earlier at 
Cook’s. I do not know that I am so much in 
haste to see her. Now let’s write. 


I cannot remember when I did not worry 
more or less about money — especially when 
our lamp-chimneys broke. Once I had quite 
a lot of money saved — a whole roll of bills, 
one cent and two cent bills as they had then, 
and threes and fives, beside my gold dollar 
which mother kept. I tried to save enough to 
pay “ the debts ” — which I overheard about. 

I begged the money of mother, mostly, for 
IOI 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


fear she would spend it all. One great copper 
cent I had found frozen into the sidewalk. 
Mr. Joyce came along just as I was beginning 
to cry because I could not get it out. My 
fingers were numb with the digging. He told 
me to run into the house and get a dipper of 
hot water to pour on it. He promised to 
watch while I was gone so no one else would 
get it and when I came back he was going 
to give me another “ to go with it ” but could 
not find any in his pockets. 

Oh ! yes. I remember the war. While I 
was dressing one morning mother asked me 
if I wanted father to go and be a soldier — 
and I wondered what was a Chaplain that he 
was so determined not to be. 

I remember the effect of the war upon our 
salary and way of living. One of the eco- 
nomic devices, I did not suspect at the time. 
When the butter was churned Jennie always 
made three little pats for Alice and John and 
me, and we ran races to see whose would last 
longest. 

Is that Amy calling you? 


“ Blind regrets ” — of all stupid things ! 
I know my beloved Curtis wrote it, but it was 
a careless lapsusque . 


102 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


My regrets, like love, are “ not blind, but 
eagle-eyed." They have eyes like sea-urchins' 
spines — jointed like snails, and they can turn 
like Ezekiel's wheels. 

Amy read a sentence this morning : “ Hap- 
piness in this world is like a flash of lightning 
from the clouds." 

“ What must it be beyond," she interpolated 
hastily, “ where the glory is perpetual ! " 

How much, I have thought since, one can 
see by a single flash of lightning! We can 
reckon it up by the result of an instantaneous 
“ exposure." A whole mountain side with its 
bristling firs, a whole city, a lawn with its 
border of beeches is printed forever in one 
mere fraction of a second, and an eye sees it 
all, as quickly. 


Why do we speak as if happiness could be 
obtained or attained — as if we all had a right 
to it — all but the hindmost. The idea is cer- 
tainly un-Constitutional. We have only a 
right to the pursuit of happiness. Sometimes 
I think old Tom Jefferson condensed all irony 
in that word “ pursuit " and watched to see 
if the baby nation would swallow it — as 
Helen Wheeler watched to see if the Grand 
Army men would publish her poem about 
103 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 

hanging George Washington on a sour apple 
tree if he'd lived in another century. 

It implies such utterly hopeless hope! and 
it was so unnecessary to put that clause in — 
just a drop of French sarcasm that gives to 
the whole instrument a touch of uncanny 
Mephistophilian ingenuity. 

The worst of it is it is so true ! We seem, 
all of us, to prefer, vastly, to stay in this 
world and pursue happiness, than to go to 
another and realise it. Buddhists and Brah- 
mans extend the pursuit indefinitely and I 
suppose Dives thought that a preferable way 
to do. 

It probably is not the happiness we shun in 
the future so much as the door that leads to 
it. The old Incas sang that Death was “ a 
dyke thrown up to prevent desertion." If it 
were not for that the hunter's zeal might 
lead us to leap through the gate as willingly 
as a cherry-petal falls in Nikko. The Jap- 
anese all wonder, I am told, that we prefer 
our roses, which rather rot on the stems than 
fall in seemly fashion. 

Old Amos Barton’s wife told me once that 
she heard I was “ not so rattle-headed as I 
used to be." It was quite a compliment then, 
but Helen writes “ I hope Oudene is as rattle- 
104 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 

headed as ever” — In some ways Fm more 
so! 

Now I’m ready. Fritz, zu, as Carlyle says. 

I used to worry dreadfully about my own 
looks and never forgot the slightest remark 
I heard about them. In those days it was a 
religious maxim that a child must not be 
praised “ before his face.” I heard many 
nice things about the others. 

John was “ a fine looking little chap,” Alice 
a “ perfect beauty,” Margaret “ looked like her 
father for all the world,” Hal was “ too 
cunning for anything”; but I seem to have 
been all misfits. 

Mrs. Carson, a delegate we entertained 
once, said she could not tell what colour my 
hair was — “ It wasn’t brown, nor it wasn’t 
red exactly.” Mr. Robberts at the store said 
my feet were bigger than my hands. Miss 
Ellis asked mother if she wasn’t afraid my 
hair would grow down to my eyebrows. — “ It 
makes her look as if she didn’t know as much 
as she did,” she ended lugubriously. 

“ Minnie Atkin’s brow goes almost up to her 
hair-ribbon,” she said another time, “ and she 
had the most head-marks last term of anybody 
in her class.” Poor mother looked so dis- 
tressed ! “ Over in Shoreham,” she added 

105 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


to cheer us up, “ Mrs. Wilcox shaves off a 
strip of her hair to raise her brow.” 

I watched father shave after that — he 
wore Burnsides or sideburns, I never could 
tell them apart — and every night in bed I 
pulled out a few hairs, though no one noted 
the improvement. 

They say Bill Sillman is dead. I never 
knew him and I did not want to. I could 
never forgive him for something his father 
did when I was about five — it must have 
been : — I know the Common Fence was 
painted green still. 

And I remember he was at the donation. 
I must tell you about that before I forget. 

Squire Hoyt got up and gave out notice in 
church — Father said he wouldn’t. I heard 
him tell mother he wouldn’t. It was to be 
“ two weeks from next Wednesday night.” 
Contributions of money could be given to 
him any time and wood or hay might be drawn 
when convenient. Vegetables and groceries 
and clothing were to be taken to the Resi- 
dence and cooked food and provisions for 
the supper must be at the tavern the afternoon 
before. The oyster supper would be served 
at ten o’clock and from that on. A full at- 
tendance was desired, and he hoped the needs 
106 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


of the minister’s family would be generously 
remembered. 

We were up in our front pew and I re- 
member mother’s cringing, and folding under 
the edge of her cloak, and tucking her 
magenta Sontag out of sight. Father cast a 
sheep’s eye at us all and then looked at his 
own legs. Was he counting us — I wondered. 

Then came the arrivals, and what fun ! 
There were loads and loads of wood, “ four- 
foot ” and “ chunks ” and kindling size. Old 
Pete had many a weeks’ chopping to do on it. 
Three big loads of hay came and Mr. Hinman 
sent Will down with a wheel-barrow full. 
We had corn for the chickens and corn on 
ears for Minnie — our pig — and oats and 
buckwheat. Mr. Palmer brought a whole 
cheese, but it turned out that half of it was 
to go on the salary — the half we had to 
give away too. 


Mrs. Hingham had a little millinery parlour 
in the room next to where she kept the Post 
Office. She made me a bonnet which, as I 
remember it, was a creation. No such gears 
grow of themselves. It was a mountain of 
fluffy white silk with flowers and feathers 
and bows edged with lace, which made her 
107 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


famous. From far and near came ambitious 
mothers to get the like, while mother only let 
me wear mine once or twice for fear I should 
soil it. 

Alice had a plush coat, cut down from Julia 
Gate’s, and Margaret a dress, and John a pair 
of mittens with a string to put over his neck 
so he would not lose them. He did, though, 
and Mrs. Walker, who knit them, missed 
them and asked mother what he had done with 
them. I caught her saying they were “ laid 
away ” as if they were dead. And next week 
she told her they were really lost she was 
afraid, but he had some old ones. 

The hotel had an enormous great ballroom 
stretching over the barroom and hall and 
parlour; behind, over the kitchen and pantry 
and bread-room and dining-room and even 
over the wood-shed, in case of emergency, 
were the bedrooms. There were crowds 
upon crowds there and more kept coming 
from all the towns about. It was a bright 
moonlight night, of course. Some sleighs 
had sleds tied on behind for beaux and sweet- 
hearts who were especially audacious. One 
sled came empty, and great were the surmises 
as to the whereabouts of the pair for whom 
it was meant. When they finally arrived 
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CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


they announced that they had been married 
by old doting Elder White, on the way. Sure 
enough, it was true, and they lived happily 
ever after, so far as I have learned. 


XIX 


MY asked me last night which I thought 



was more important, the Urim or Thum- 
mim, Light or Truth. I have not quite de- 


cided. 


St. Paul does not often come to the Club 
or I could find out a lot about those Old Testa- 
ment things that he got from Gamaliel. He 
was blind so short a time that he does not 
know, himself, whether he really belongs. We 
always welcome him as cordially as if he were 
a sure-enough “ worthy.” 

He agrees with me that too much light may 
be more disastrous, physically, than none at 


all. 


I did not mention to him that Semele had 
found it so too — though Ovid says it was the 
sound, rather than the effulgence, that affected 
her — and she can’t remember. 

St. Paul says no one can think what those 
days were to him — supposing that his sight 
was gone forever. 

He was most of the time, however, so over- 


IIO 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


whelmed by the spiritual light that shone 
within that he did not even perceive the phys- 
ical darkness. The Vision he had seen was 
glorious and so permanent that he did not 
realise it had passed and was only a memory. 

We all see colour-pictures, when we take 
time for them, on the linings of our eyelids 
after we have gazed at the flame of a common 
lamp. His were probably as much more bril- 
liant and significant as the vision he saw was 
more brilliant and significant than a lamp 
flame — and we do not know the optical 
properties of those scales. 

I must inquire what he did with them. I 
do not remember to have seen them in any 
reliquary. They would have a commercial 
value now. Those Johnston folks might get 
one and raffle it off for the benefit of their 
church. They have tried every other way to 
raise funds for it. If they don't hit on some- 
thing new before long they will have to give 
money outright themselves. 

I was going to tell you, when we were in- 
terrupted, about one of our spring chickens 
that stole her nest one October and hatched 
out a whole brood of little chickens — five, I 
think — just like an old hen. Our father 
hi 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


was very easily moved by instances of special 
maternal assiduity and fidelity. He decided at 
once that they “ were worth raising,” and be- 
gan to think how it might be accomplished. 
Mother was inclined to resent the imperti- 
nence of “ a pullet like that ! ” 

When she discovered father down cellar, ar- 
ranging a nursery for her with some of his 
book boxes, she was downright rebellious. 
For several days they had to stay out in the 
hen house, but as usual she yielded at last. 

Later father wanted to put her into a 
warmer apartment under the family sitting- 
room, and mother vetoed the proposal most 
vehemently. 

“ Very well,” he replied with alarming 
meekness, “ I was going to put the other hens 
in too. The ground is frozen so hard their 
bills are all split open from pecking on it.” 

At that she withdrew all her objections and 
wanted to set up a little stove for them which 
was not in use. 

I ran out to help him catch them and felt 
so dreadfully that he whispered to me that 
their “ bills were always split open or how 
could they eat ? ” 

We could not keep them down cellar very 
long for something got in and scared them 
1 12 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


and they made a dreadful noise when we were 
having an Enquiry Meeting upstairs. 


What was I going to tell you next? Do 
you ever think of a thing till you forget it? 
Sometimes I feel that I am going to forget 
what I am thinking about, and although I 
clutch at it and think I shall not let it slip away 
— it vanishes in spite of all I can do. 

One of my greatest trials was to stand still 
when mother had to sew me up somewhere. 
She seemed quite indifferent to the pricks that 
resulted when I did not stand still. She al- 
most invariably remarked that a stitch in time 
saved nine, but she never said nine what. 

But these were not what I meant to tell. I 
fear I cannot think any more to-night. 


XX 


Y ES, “ Mrs. Sutton ” came last night. I 
fear I can only remember to call her 
Helen. Sit down directly, dear, and let me 
tell you I am so relieved — but more sur- 
prised than I expected to be. 

She rushed down as soon as she had 
lunched and came hunting for me on the 
porch without ringing the bell. Did you 
think anyone would be so bold? When she 
found me she threw herself on my neck and 
laughed and cried too. Before I could catch 
my breath she said, “ And so Amy’s en- 
gaged ! ” 

“ Who told you?” I asked. 

“Who?” she repeated, “Mr. Kennedy, of 
course.” 

“ They never have confessed to me,” I 
said, supposing that she would be abashed 
at finding she had let the cat out the bag. 

“ Never mind if they haven’t,” she laughed, 
“ I have. I knew you would be perfectly 
delighted and they were silly not to know it 
114 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


too. They did. I said to Mr. Kennedy, 
‘ Why, Oudene is the last person in this living 
world who would want Amy to sacrifice her- 
self for her/ ” 

“ And what did he say ? ” I inquired. 

“ Oh,” she replied, “ he said that was the 
very idea he had about it, but he could not 
well insist.” 

She had had a glorious passage. She al- 
ways has. She does not dance and flirt her- 
self, but she keeps watch of those who do. 
“ The Atlantic is not wide enough for real 
tragic affairs to mature,” she says. “ On the 
Pacific there is time for all sorts of things to 
happen, and for the fiancees to change their 
minds two or three times before they meet the 
fiances. 

“ The Alstrongs and Wheelers were coming 
back after two years of circumnavigation ” 
and “ told her about the Toms and Dicks and 
Harrys they met on the Manchuria going 
out ” and “ they introduced her and she intro- 
duced them and ” — Helen always does have 
such a good time ! She deserves to be popular 
for she is true blue, a frantic advocate when 
her friends get into trouble and generous and 
sympathetic to a fault. 

I am glad she has come, but I longed to be 
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CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


alone and think. I knew I was glad of what 
she had told me but I did not know how glad 
until she had gone. That is Helen’s rarest 
gift — she always seems to know when you 
want to think — and be alone. She had letters 
to write a little after nine, and was gone. 

Amy was down at Mrs. Murphy’s, cutting 
out some work for the sewing class, I sup- 
posed, which was quite a mistake. “ I took 
her for a walk,” Mr. Nelson explained. “We 
had some plans to make and she had not been 
out to see the flowers at Mr. Draper’s. 

“ Oh ! Oudene ! ” she groaned, “ they are so 
lovely ! ” 

She did not know Helen had come and I 
did not tell her. 

When we were alone she sat by me and 
perhaps I made it easy for her to speak about 
my loneliness — hoping she would tell me. 

It was a hot dark night, you remember, and 
the heavy wind swept the vines against me. 

She thought I was “ slow ” — when I asked 
— “ in adjusting myself to new conditions.” 
“ My friends miss me, need me, why will I 
shut myself away from them so ? ” 

“ Why, * Amy ! ” I interrupted, “ I have 
seen so many persons ! Mr. Nelson and Mr. 
Kennedy and all your poor people — even 
116 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


Mrs. Hammond you remember, and Mrs. Ben- 
net!” 

“ But it is a whole year ! ” she said — and 
when I was ready she helped me upstairs very 
tenderly. 

She came into my room, long after I was 
in bed and picked up some scattered things 
— then she came and kneeled by me. We both 
prayed, I fancy. She has been quiet, for her, 
ever since Mr. Kennedy went away — and 
yet I have noticed a suppressed happiness 
which she seemed sometimes to smother too 
closely. 

“Are you tired to-night, dear?” I said. 
“ Where did you go to-day ? ” 

“ First to Mrs. Anderson’s,” she replied, 
“ her husband’s head is worse ; and then to 
see Mary Jane’s wedding gown. Just as I 
was leaving, Mr. Nelson brought Charles in 
to give them a bit of drill for the service. 
It was so funny! Mary was afraid to stand 
up for fear they would be married accident- 
ally — “ and this Friday, Mum ! ” 

“ I doubt if Charles will get courage to 
take her hand in his with the crowd looking 
on. We told him he positively must and that 
seemed to relieve him. He is honest and true 
as the day is long — or the night either. 

n 7 . 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT, 


Mary will have a good, faithful, motherly 
husband, tender, too, in his way. I am glad 
for her ! ” 

After a moment, I faltered ; “ I wish, dear, 
I might be happy for you in that same way — ” 

She stroked my forehead a moment, then 
leaned over and kissed it, whispering, almost: 

“ I think, Oudene, you will be when you 
know.” 

I lay quite still. 

“We have not known, dear, how you would 
feel. I did not know but Mr. Kennedy had 
told you. I asked him to if he was sure you 
would be glad. He answered, ‘ What if I am 
sure she will be sorry ? ’ ‘ Then she shall 

never know/ said I, ‘ there shall be nothing 
to tell/ ” 

Mr. Nelson was sure you would be happy, 
relieved, I don’t know what not, to know I 
was so happy. “ You would have one more 
to love you — entertain you ” — not dreaming 
how that last word hurt! 

I told her how glad and happy I was for 
her and that I had foreseen it, I hoped, and 
longed for it to be true. I was not satisfied 
with the way I expressed it, but I am sure she 
knows. That one word had made me think 
about myself so foolishly! 

118 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


I did not sleep for hours. I worked over 
a bit of mathematics to prove very foolishly 
that Heaven is deaf and dumb. 

Delaroche wrote of the “ dumb hostility of 
heaven ” and an equally competent authority 
says that “ heaven is deaf, but not blind.” 

It sees our wickedness but cannot hear our 
apologies. I suppose it does just that, so 
long as we are in a mood to apologise. Real 
repentance and penitence are always a panto- 
mime — to be seen and not heard. 

“ Don’t talk ” — father used to say when 
anything went wrong — and we didn’t. But 
it was never hard to make him understand 
we were sorry. 

There is Helen’s voice now. 


XXI 


M Y dear ! — I am so glad the rain did not 
keep you. I need you all the more but 
I do hope you will not come when you should 
not. 

Let’s have some Club to liven things up 
before we begin. 

We met in Athens last night and sat on the 
Hill of the Muses, too late for the sunset if 
we could have seen it. I saw it from there 
years ago and the great fiery ball dropped into 
the Acropolis as into its socket. 

Cupid was sitting on the slope toward the 
Stadium, at first, and it seems Faith began, 
while I was talking with Zedekiah, to be- 
labour him for causing so much misery in 
the world. She did seem to be charging him 
with more than his share of the troubles, 
and I was minded, almost, to take his part. 

He bore it all so meekly that I was fright- 
ened. He admitted everything she said and 
even added that he had been worrying about it 
himself and wondering what he ought to do. 
120 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


The trouble was he seemed to do as much 
harm by not shooting as when he shot. 

Sometimes when he tries his best to aim at 
somebody he thinks ought to be hit, a gust 
of wind comes along and sends his arrow 
down an alley or around a corner. One 
young fellow whom he was trying to “ help 
out ” once asked him if he had his quiver full 
of boomerangs. 

Cupid is as patient a little fellow as ever 
lived, and seemed willing to listen to almost 
any amount of unpleasant truth about himself 
— if it wasn’t too true. I think Faith pushed 
the subject a little too far myself, and he 
finally retorted that she did as much mischief 
as he did. 

I do not think he believed it himself when 
he first said it, but after he got warmed up 
he made out quite a case. 

Faith was so astonished she never said a 
word. Maybe her breath was taken away. 

He said she inveigled people into all sorts 
of wild schemes — she robbed the widow and 
the fatherless, got them to invest their scanty 
funds in promotions that they would know to 
be frauds, if Faith did not mix herself in 
their affairs. 

Finally, when all our hairs were nearly 
121 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


standing on end he had worked himself up to 
tell her his own arrows might do no harm if 
she would let things alone. “ That is the 
worst of the whole business/’ he wound up, 
“ both for them and for posterity.” 

Faith and Cupid are just the two dearest 
people in the world, and I never saw — heard, 
them so upset. It really looked — seemed, as 
if there would be serious trouble. 

Justice asked me if she hadn’t better step 
in and quiet them down. I said “ Yes, for 
pity’s sake, if she dared.” That was not 
just the best thing to say to her and she went 
at them a little severely. 

Will you believe me? They both of them 
turned upon her and retorted that she did 
more harm than the two of them together. 

Faith began it and went quite at length into 
the story of wars and prisons and penalties of 
all sorts — and duels and feuds and quarrels 
Justice had put people up to. 

Homer put in his word saying Justice had 
had more than Cupid to do with his wars. 
That old taunt of Cupid’s seems to rankle in 
his mind. 

Hope was sitting by me and I asked her if 
she could not say something to distract their 
attention. She said, “ No, she was not a kin- 
122 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


dergarten teacher or a scientist, and she had 
no faith in distraction.” Procrastination was 
her strong hold. 

She did put in a word finally, in her gentle 
way, and I defy you to imagine our feelings 
when Justice turned upon her and said she 
was as bad as any of them. 

“ Justice, dear,” said I, “ it was Hope speak- 
ing — you misunderstood I am sure.” 

“ No, Mrs. De Lon,” she replied, “ she takes 
people’s minds off the blessings they have and 
might enjoy and keeps them watching for 
something better, and discontented, of course, 
all the time. If it were not for her they would 
not be forever pursuing pleasure.” 

Then Faith put in: “And you get up al- 
most as many wars as Justice.” 

But it was Cupid that hit the nail on the 
head. “ How about that lady that ate the 
apple ? ” he asked. “ Wasn’t she hoping to be- 
come wise ? ” He is the cleverest youngster ! 


You do not believe in post-mortem justice? 
If there is no post-mortem justice there is 
not any at all. You surely do not think 
things are fair in this world, taken by itself, 
do you ? Perhaps you believe in that prenatal 
nonsense — that we even up here ! 

123 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


When the meeting broke up and I sup- 
posed I was all alone, Justice sat down by me. 
It seems she had stayed behind to readjust 
her bandage. The fastening is very insecure 
and she is always stopping to tie it — as father 
used always to be stopping me to tie up my 
shoes. We had leather strips for strings, 
which never broke, but would come untied. 

Justice says I am one of her very few 
friends, and that she feels her unpopularity 
more than anyone supposes. 

“ I had my name changed once,” she said, 
“ and hoped that I should get rid of some of 
my old odium, but I might as well have kept 
it.” 

I did not understand what she meant by 
that, and was afraid of finding some skeleton 
in her closet if I asked. 

“ It used to be Nemesis,” she volunteered 
at last, as if to have the worst over with. 

I was so shocked I almost cried out — and 
shrank away from her a bit — but I caught 
myself and coughed it off. 

It seems she has aliases — like Diana and 
lots of respectable people. She is Nemesis in 
Hell — “ and nobody has to go there unless 
he wants to,” she said — and Justice in 
Heaven, and on Earth she mixes her roles. 

124 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


“ I did not suppose you went into Heaven,’* 
I asked. “ I thought Mercy took that for her 
province. ,, 

“ Humph ! ” she said to herself ; then, “ Art 
you a Universalist? ” 

All she has to do is to see that people get 
their deserts wherever they are — or some- 
one else’s. That is the very trouble! No- 
body wants his deserts. 

I told her I had heard of people who went 
to Heaven that I thought did not deserve to 
be there. She says that is all right too ; they 
inherit rights they were not born to and 
have not earned. She passes on all their 
credentials and has the papers on file. 

I asked if people down below earned their 
punishment or were born to it, and she said: 
“ Both.” 

“ Are there any babies down there ? ” said 
I. I knew there weren’t, but wanted to see 
what she’d say. 

“ Humph ! ” she said. “ If there are they 
are lucky not to have grown up and deserved 
more stripes than their fathers. And they are 
better off than they could have been in this 
world.” 

“ Yes,” I said, and told her father’s old idea, 
which she liked. Of course she knows things 
125 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


she must not tell, but she admitted that there 
were people who had infinitesimal degrees of 
punishment. 

“ On the whole,” she wound up, “ most of 
them may be as comfortable as they were in 
this life, but that is not saying much.” 

“ I do not suppose many of them wish they 
had not been born ? ” I asked. 

“ Only one,” she answered. “ But the end- 
lessness of it is what appals them.” 

Being disembodied, you see, they have no 
transmigration or metamorphosis to look for- 
ward to. They have no old body to exchange 
for a new. Tithonous could cling to some- 
thing — even in his grasshopper stage. It is 
a good deal pleasanter for some people to have 
the Gate of Death shut before them than be- 
hind — but not for all. 

A sweet little girl has been sleeping this 
hundred years by Trinity Church, in a bed 
which would rent, if properly divided into 
stories, for two thousand a year. She lay 
down when she was not yet in her teens and 
if we suppose the writing on her bed-head is 
her voice, she says something very simple — 
like the three wise men at sea in a bowl — 
but quite as significant. 


126 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


You have to scratch away the grass to find 
it: 

“ When the Archangel’s trump shall blow 
And souls and bodies jine 
What crowds will wish their lives below 
Had been as short as mine.” 

We seem to think that if one cannot go to 
Heaven at all, the longer he lives here the 
better — when it is quite the other way. 

It is a comfort to think that the wickeder 
people are the shorter the average of life, and 
that in the very darkest corners of the earth 
almost everybody dies in infancy. 

If there is a Limbo for unbaptised children 
it must be a very happy place — a sort of 
Peristan with only the longing for Heaven to 
mar the joy. Such longing as we have, while 
we struggle so hard to keep out of it ! 

I was almost wishing that Justice would 
move on when Cupid came back and plumped 
down between us, all out of breath. I asked 
him if he had been off on a lark. 

“ No,” said he, “ I am no Ganymede, to 
ride bird-back. I have wings of my own.” 

I told him I did not mean a real lark, and 
he said : “ Venus never allowed us to talk 
slang. I don’t understand it.” Probably she 
never thought he was big enough to learn it. 

127 


XXII 


H ELEN is great fun! She was here all 
the morning, doing some lace work she 
learned from the Sisters in Shanghai. She 
thinks my beans a great scheme. I was 
working away at them when she came and 
caught me. 

She knows all sorts of out-of-the-way things. 
She told us a story of a New Zealand fisher- 
man in mythical times, who, when he was out 
of fish-hooks, killed his two sons and used 
their jaw bones — “like Samson, ” she put in 
unconsciously. As a requital for the loss of 
their lives he promoted the right eye of the 
elder to be the morning star, and the right 
eye of the younger to be the evening star. 

One would think that the honour was abun- 
dant compensation, but it seems the Sun was 
so outraged that it refused to shine any 
longer. 

Old Morm ran after it three days, and 
finally by his entreaties persuaded it to shine 
half the time. Then he made the moon, and 
128 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


tied it to the sun with a long string, so that 
every time the sun went down, the moon would 
come up, and overcome in part the darkness 
to which they were doomed for the other 
half-day. 

The story seemed incomplete, for we have 
no hint as to what became of the two others, 
the left, eyes. 


We talk of Newton constantly. 

“ Do you remember, Oudene,” she asked 
to-day, “ the time you insisted that Watson 
Washburn ” — he was sexton and chorister 
both, a great singer — “wrote Watt’s Select 
Hymns? ” 

Father always gave them out “ Watt’s and 
Select Hymns,” don’t you know, and I thought 
it was Watson of course. Father’s name was 
Calvin too and when they talked of Calvinists 
and -ism I supposed he was the “ great origi- 
nal.” 

Helen is two years older than I. Her 
mother came to Newton after her father died. 
She barely remembers our Alice, so I must 
have been nine at least and should have known 
better long before — if anyone had told me. 

We went over that dear old church splinter 
by splinter, from the hole in the platform, 
129 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


which ran the whole length of its front, — 
where Ell Adams sprained his ankle the night 
we were catching June bugs to put in Lib- 
bie’s room — to the little cupboards under 
the pulpit behind the Table, and the hysop 
that grew on the wall. She says the Sabbath 
School books were kept in the north cup- 
board and the dust-rags and the communion 
silver in the south, “ Which it was exactly 
the other way,” I assured her in Wolfville 
parlance. 

“ I’ll write to June Chase and ask/* she 
wound up, forgetting like me that the old 
church site is long ago the ashy haunt of owls 
and bats. 

The choir sat in the rear of the church, in 
a long gallery over the lobby — which latter 
ran across the whole front and was divided 
longitudinally by a flight of three steps into 
an upper “ Court of the Women ” and a lower 
“ Court of the Men ” on a level with the plat- 
form outside, where they preferred to stay in 
the summer, unless it was too hot. 

We tried to remember who played the 
melodeon, and who sang base and alto and 
the other parts and what had become of Wil- 
liam Draper who had such a fine tenor voice, 
and of Watson's old tuning fork. 

130 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


It was customary for the congregation to 
rise during the singing — especially of a solo 
or duet — and turn quite about so their backs 
were facing the pulpit, and they could see the 
singers, the great hoop skirts in vogue making 
the turning a laborious process. 

The city visitors — we had no “ resorters ” 
in those days, or ever a day’s board paid in 
Newton — were especially embarrassed in 
trying to conform to our ways. Because of 
their greater beam and lack of practice they 
were sometimes involved in quite protracted 
struggles. 

Father had the best view of their distresses, 
and when a Washington belle was present one 
day he said he surely thought there was a 
stray dog or calf caught under her skirts 
and fighting to get loose, they snapped out so 
in different directions after she stopped touch- 
ing them. 

Sometimes the fractious garments could not 
be conquered, and the wearer had to stand 
alone facing her smiling fellow-worshippers. 

We all wore them, even when we were so 
small that they flung our upper skirts into our 
faces every time we sat down. 

Mrs. Bates told me that when they lived in 
Middleton and she could not have been more 

131 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


than six, her mother bought a hoop skirt for 
her of a pedlar, and her brother Harry 
went out on the back door-step and cried be- 
cause he couldn’t have one too. It was really 
a mania. Hooplessness was practically naked- 
ness. 

The minister’s pew was in the Amen Cor- 
ner, at father’s right. There was only one 
pew ahead of us, and it was never occupied 
because the minister was not, by any possible 
effort, to be seen from any part of it. We 
could see him from where we sat, if we looked 
up at an angle of forty-five degrees through 
the railing. Mother could see him, if she sat 
at the end of the pew and “ looked aloft ” 
as Johnny Abbot exhorted us to do whenever 
he “ spoke a piece.” 

We children did not care, for we had a fine 
view of the congregation and they of us. 

Father had to go up three steps to the sacra- 
mental platform, where the cupboards were, 
and six more from that to the pulpit, which 
was draped and upholstered with rich crimson 
damask. We had to be sure that he brought 
his sermon and his handkerchief, for in lieu of 
the latter he once displayed Margaret’s baby 
shirt. 

There was no other church in the town and 
132 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


members came from homes, four, five, six, and 
in one direction eight miles away. There 
were four hundred members, and Eve heard 
father boast eighty men who could be asked 
to lead a meeting, if necessary. 

I told you there were long rows of horse- 
sheds behind the church and along Station 
street. Each man had his own stall and some 
of the more worldly minded ones would de- 
posit their wives and daughters upon the great 
platform with chivalrous grace, only assumed 
for Sunday display, and then gather in groups 
about the sheds. 

That made the further end of the seat 
very desirable. Many a choice bit of gossip 
we heard as we sat by that window with 
our heads demurely and ostentatiously 
bowed for the opening prayer. Once I 
heard Levi Nelson telling Sol Barrows what 
a time he had when his second wife died and 
his two little boys — almost the same day. 
“ But,” he wound up, “ I never had the tuck 
took out of me till my barn burnt up.” 

We depended upon the late comers for 
entertainment during the first half hour. Our 
clay roads delayed many and various casu- 
alties hindered others. Our father’s prede- 
cessor was said to have prayed, upon one oc- 
133 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


casion, for those who were present, and for 
those who were on their way, and for those 
who were at home getting ready to come. 

The first Summer that Mr. Kennedy spent 
in Newton, he said, was the one when we 
had the “ Fourth of July.” He was sent to 
spend the vacation with his uncle, Major 
Whipple. He was in a military school some- 
where, fitting for college. The short jacket 
and brass buttons which, he says, made him 
feel conspicuous and silly, made a great sen- 
sation among us children — or I should prob- 
ably have forgotten him. 

That Celebration was a great event. Long 
tables were set in the Common, near the row 
of little butternut trees father had set out 
because he loved them so. 

Aunt Sallie Britton brought two cakes for 
the Walbridge table, decorated in intricate 
arabesques with pink and green sugared cara- 
way and coriander seeds on the white frosting. 

Amanda Evans, with no Moslem prohibi- 
tion in her mind, had constructed a pair of 
doves on hers. They were a nine days wonder 
to us all. 

Somebody made a long speech — Oration 
— before we could eat. Mr. Kennedy re- 
membered the name of the orator but I have 
134 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


forgotten again. We children did not dream 
of whispering, even to each other. 

It was certainly five years later that I first 
spoke to Mr. Kennedy. His first name is 
Alfred but I never heard anyone call him by 
it alone. The men left off the Mister, of 
course. He was graduating from Williams 
and Jack was a Sophomore. Let me see — 
I was not quite fourteen. Jack’s home was 
about a mile beyond Major Whipple’s. They 
used to come to borrow books of father. 

He went to Germany for three years and 
came back a man of the world, with a real 
scar. Jack was in West Point then and we 
were great friends. After that he went to 
Washington and had some secretaryship for 
a year or two and did not know Jack and I 
were engaged. 

He came up for the wedding and was the 
life of it all. The following year he went to 
Madras, and rose from one position to an- 
other as the years went on. He and Jack 
always wrote. Two letters came from him 
after Jack’s last. 

Who was that with Amy? Mrs. Asham? 
Poor woman, her husband is getting so child- 
ish! She is like a mother to him now. 

135 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


Yes, I think when people live together all 
their lives they do change roles. The first ten 
years the husband mothers her, and the last 
ten she mothers him. It is beautiful to 
watch the “ mothering” but there is apt to 
be difficulty during the period of reconstruc- 
tion. There is a time when neither is quite 
in authority, and if the husband is jeal- 
ous of his prerogatives or the wife insistent, 
why, there is trouble. The neighbours say 
“ After they have lived together for thirty 
years !” As if that wasn’t just the reason. 


By the way, I did not mean to mention it, 
but just between us I think that Helen 
admires Mr. Nelson rather extravagantly. 
When she first came she talked about him 
so constantly, and she has omitted to men- 
tion him so carefully of late that I almost 
wondered. 

Are you sure she hears from Captain Sut- 
ton regularly? 

I took a round about way to help to-day, 
telling her how high church he was, and that 
when he first came he was constantly admir- 
ing the “ Brothers ” of this Order, and the 
“ Sisters ” of that. I did not mention his 
136 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


belief or vow — I don’t know that it amounts 
to that, though — of celibacy. 

Helen always was impressionable. 


Yes, yes I am ready. 

Amy lost her drive because of the rain to- 
day. 

I asked old Mary last night when she was 
taking in the clothes-line if she thought it 
would rain to-morrow. “ I don’t know, 
mum,” she replied in the happiest voice, “ I 
hope not.” When Abram brought up the let- 
ters I asked him the same question, to make 
sure, and he said, “ I don't know, mum, I 
’spose so.” 

They were characteristic answers. Mary 
is far more comforting but, I must admit, 
Abram is more satisfactory. He draws the 
fangs of hope, you might say. I don’t be- 
lieve he ever in his life was “ unhappily dis- 
appointed.” When he says a thing, some- 
how, you know the worst is over and you 
can look it square in the eye. 

Does Mary get disappointed? Yes, a 
thousand times a day — or she would if she 
wasn’t made of rubber. Fate plays tennis 
with her for a ball and they both enjoy it — 
the fools ! 


137 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 

Of all persons, I don't mind the rain. For 
me there is no cause to worry lest some days 
be dark and dreary. 

I love to hear it rain too — and do you 
spell that it with a capital ? 


Can you think how a blind person treasures 
his other senses? Bartimaeus says that after 
he had learned to see he could always tell a 
blind person by the way he listened, and a 
deaf person by how he looked. One of the 
five “ doors to the soul ” being nailed up the 
others are set ajar or flung wide open by 
way of compensation. 

No, we did not have a Club meeting to- 
day. Paul talked with me for a while. 

“ Five doors of the soul ” — Lamartine, 
isn’t it, says they are the five strands of a 
cord which binds spirit and matter together 
in what he calls an “ adulterous union.” 
When one strand breaks, one must be just so 
far — one-fifth — dead. 

Once Amy had a very naughty class in 
Sunday School with a particularly unruly 
member. When they were unusually restless 
one day, she asked — seeing the lesson was 
about Peter and James — which they would 

138 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


rather be; crucified or have their heads cut 
off with a sword. 

That dashed them, and they were all atten- 
tion on the instant, frozen into their improper 
positions. After the first clap, they settled 
down to consultation and voted unanimously 
and eagerly for crucifixion. When she went 
into detail, they all changed their minds except 
that worst one, “ Squiddles.” He insisted 
upon crucifixion so stubbornly that she be- 
came interested to know his reason, which he 
stated promptly and emphatically : 

“ I want to die all in one piece.” 

So did Nero, and I don’t, myself, think it 
the ideal way to die one sense at a time — 
I surely have fallen into a pit. Help me out ! 

The Greeks — fortunately, you remember, 
Amy reads me all the footnotes, had a better 
simile. 

Yes, now we go right through and read 
the footnotes first. She suggested it and it 
works finely. You get the real vitals of a 
book that way, segregated, like the viscera 
in some stalls of the market at Naples. The 
book is just the shell. Some pink-and- white 
books do not have any notes for fear they'll 
get skipped if they do. 

139 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


That note about the Greeks said the senses 
were five sticks bound into a torch and the 
soul was the flame, — or, the strings of a lyre 
and the soul was the harmony. 

When the torch went out or the lyre was 
broken what became of the flame or the 
music? There was no note to tell that, or 
to say who lighted the torch or played the 
lyre. 

Paganini did not mind a string or two 
broken — why should I? Because I’m not 
the musician, perhaps. One string may make 
more music in some hands than five in others. 
I’ll make all the music I can with the four 
that are left. I can at least avoid discords 
and silence. 

So about the torch — if one stick is gone, 
all the other rays are left. And after all we 
do not notice the pure white light so much. 
It is when the light is shattered in the rain- 
bow that we realize the promise. My arch- 
ing bow may lack some colour but I will not 
lament for the rest are more apparent be- 
cause it is gone. 

It is well to behave oneself quietly if it may 
be. It was Montesquieu, I think, that said 
to Lord Chesterfield who chafed under his 
deafness, “ I have learned to be blind.” 

140 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


At first sight one would think anyone could 
be blind whose eyes were put out, but it takes 
a good deal of study and effort to do it suc- 
cessfully and creditably. 

A beheaded fowl does not conduct itself 
with the dignity and decorum which death 
rather demands. So, one suddenly bereft of 
sight is likely to assume quite unbecoming 
mental attitudes until he has schooled himself 
to a new code of etiquette. When he has 
once “ learned to be blind ” he will take the 
same pride in it that one has in any kind of 
skill. His friends call it Resignation. 

We .get ourselves weighted down with 
spiritual barnacles as we “ fare to the doom- 
stead.” 


XXIII 


C UPID came by this morning very early. 

He is on “ tower ” during the night, now 
the moon is full. 

He tells me his bow was made of apple 
wood and strung with a bit of serpent skin. 
It reminded me of the Garden of Eden, 
but he says “ No.” “ Venus made it,” he 
added, “ and had only her own mouth for 
a model.” 

That was long before Jove’s day. He, 
Cupid, had an easy time then. Hymen did 
most of the work; they were in a sort of a 
partnership. Later, he had to leave Hymen 
to run the Works and to go on the road, — 
so to speak, — himself, with only a few ar- 
rows. The market was not so extensive at 
first, but he worked up quite a business till 
the Flood broke it all up. 

They stopped the works entirely for a year, 
and business was dull for a long time after. 
They have been a very conservative Con- 
cern since that event. 


142 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


“ Shem rather blamed the Flood on me,” 
he went on, but did not finish his sentence until 
I asked: 

“ Did you have any hand in it ? ” 

“ I would say ‘ no ’ to anyone else/’ he 
replied, “ but seeing its you, I don’t mind 
saying, that, trying to extend our territory, I 
did go up once and shoot some angels.” 

“ You didn’t really ! ” I cried rudely before 
I thought. 

“ Yes,” he sighed, “ I really did. I wanted 
to do something to show Hymen how smart I 
was, and I really did. It was an awful 
blunder — worst I ever made.” 

It made trouble and Hymen nearly drove 
him out of the firm. Venus patched it up, 
but he had no doubt the Deluge was precipi- 
tated by the confusion and their quarrel. 

On the whole he has gradually come to the 
conclusion that it is better for him to confine 
himself to the lower orders of society — 
milk-maids and shepherds. The higher up 
he gets the more mischief he does. 

Royal families, he says, favour Hymen alto- 
gether, and, if he ever does shoot on their 
preserves, he does more harm than good. 
Sometimes Hymen just gets a family settled 
and he goes and shoots the whole thing 
143 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 

“ cross-eyed,” he said. He has been known 
to run a whole train off the track and smash 
an entire dynasty. Again some arrow, shot 
just at a venture, opens a switch and some 
utterly illegitimate successor pulls the whole 
rolling stock off the main line. 

I suggested that he must find much more 
appreciative friends among the cultured 
classes. He admitted that, but urged that a 
little more poetry, or portraiture or music 
did not compensate him for the uneasiness 
caused by disasters he had initiated. 

I don’t think I have appreciated Cupid as a 
conscientious boy. 

I tried to talk over some of the Philoso- 
phers with him, and get his opinion of them, 
but he was too tired. He said he hated Plato 
personally, but liked his ideas. 

I told him our American Philistine set great 
store by him and even proclaimed publicly 
that : “ Love was the great Enlightener.” 
He picked up and flew off at that only saying : 

“ He knows.” 


XXIV 


T AM glad you did not come yesterday. 

It was one of my off days. Amy came 
in the morning and asked what she could do 
for me. “ Nothing/’ I laughed, for I was in 
the best of spirits, “ unless you stand out of 
my sunshine.” 

It had just come over me that some Alex- 
ander must be standing by my tub and cutting 
off every ray of light, as if he were doing it 
knowingly, maliciously. I get the queerest 
notions, like that, about what makes me blind 
— or, rather, why I can’t see. The fault is 
never in me, of course. 

I suppose every proper Diogenes has his 
own Alexander, but no Diogenes should or 
would be his own. He would prove that he 
was not a philosopher if he did and so beg 
the question by a reductio ad absurdum, 
when he “ obstructed himself.” 

All this foolishness is only my way of whis- 
tling in the dark to keep up my courage. A 
talk with Hope or Faith would do me more 
145 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


good, I have no doubt, and make me happier. 

Who is it says that every faith has a calm- 
ing influence “ because every faith is a hope, 
and every hope renders us patient. ,, I would 
be the last person to slander a virtue, but I 
really do not see my way clear to agree to 
that. I would sooner charge hope with making 
us impatient. 

Hope is water heaving, tossing, ebbing, 
flowing. Faith is solid rock, one and in- 
divisible. 


146 


XXV 


/^UPID says we might as well talk of a 
“ little squab Faith ” because he hap- 
pened to find that Faith had wings too. It is 
uncommonly hard for him to forgive a slur 
like that. I told him if he did not think 
about it he’d forget it, and that that was the 
best variety of forgiveness. 

I never was initiated, but I read some- 
where years ago, that after the celebration of 
the Eleusinian mysteries, a benediction was 
pronounced which ended with the words 
“ Watch and be pure.” Now ! Can one 
watch without eyes ? — or be pure ? No more 
can one “ watch and pray ” so he will surely 
fall into temptation. And it is only the 
blessed pure who can see God. 

Those who sought the Holy Grail and 
talked of the Grail Domain did not seem to 
realise that only a Christian could see it any- 
where; or else, they did not realise that they 
were yet in their sins. 

Its invisibility — that’s a funny word to 
147 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


have five eyes ! — is very marvelous, consider- 
ing its radiance and splendour. 

The Grail Domain and the Kingdom of 
Darkness must be co-extensive, each occupy- 
ing the others’ interstices. Their subjects are 
best of friends and next of kin and there is 
most charming fellowship between light and 
darkness. The lion lies down with the lamb 
and she makes no protest — 


Long ago, in a poem Mr. Nelson brought 
down, “ The web of night settled over the 
world.” Thinking it over, I remembered 
how the darkness used to come on, as if a 
veritable web were spinning and its thicken- 
ing meshes shutting out the light. 

It was easy to run on until I had spun 
myself into a cocoon and was quite in the 
dark, — a pupa, a chrysalis, anything hope- 
lessly shut in. Even future release must in- 
volve such a surprise that I do not long for it 
— my imago state! 

But I am shunted off again. 

I fell to worrying about Amy later. What 
would she think I meant by her standing in 
my light? If I had been a man, thank For- 
tune, — is she blind, and am I forgetting to 
Club her all this time ? — I never should have 
148 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


been such a fool as to worry about that. I 
composed several speeches to correct her if — 

I could not apologise. It took me an hour 
to decide that. I could not remark in any 
“ by the bye ” that I did not mean to say it. 
That only took half an hour. I could not 
ask Mr. Nelson to set her straight — that 
took several hours. I could not make a clean 
breast of the whole thing and ask Helen. 
But it only took ten seconds to decide that it 
would not do at all. 

After being upset all day, I managed at 
night without any trouble. She was holding 
my hand up to her cheek, in a way she has, at 
bedtime. Naturally as could be I remarked: 

“ I wish Mr. Nelson would not come so 
often ! I’m tired of hearing him talk about 
Mr. Kennedy every minute,” so she’d see I 
was not the least bit interested in him, don’t 
you know. 

“ We all talk about him too much, perhaps,” 
she said after a long pause — in a tired tone 
she only has once in a long, long time. 

You can imagine how I felt then! Trying 
to exorcise one devil I had swept and gar- 
nished seven more with little devilkins hang- 
ing to their tails thick as opossums. 


149 


XXVI 


I CERTAINLY have had the black but- 
terflies, as they call the blues in their 
“glittering French.” They are a variety 
which are not “ feathers from the wings of 
God ” as true butterflies are supposed to be. 
I fear that Eblis sheds the feathers which are 
the black butterflies of our dark days. They 
have fallen about me thicker than if the 
“ Widdecourt folk ” had picked all their 
black geese. 

Is it a week since you came last? Amy 
wrote a note to Mr. Nelson the next day but 
one, and he came and they had a long talk and 
went somewhere together for two hours. He 
did not come in to see me. I wondered if it 
were possible that she would postpone, or 
even break her engagement, until I could not 
bear it. 

If it had not been for Helen I do not know 
what we should have done — and our reading, 
which we have not interrupted with nonsense 
and gossip as usual. 

150 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


Twice I told Helen I wished Mr. Kennedy 
would come back to help with some quan- 
daries I was trying to unravel about Indian 
mythology. I hoped she would mention it to 
Amy, and I told Mr. Nelson I wished he lived 
here so I could appeal to him at my con- 
venience. 

“ He always knows just how a thing can 
be unsnarled,” I added as Amy came in, hop- 
ing she would ask “ Who ? ” 

“ You certainly need him,” Helen laughed, 
“ for you’re always at some sort of a snarl.” 

After they were gone I got Abram to bring 
me a ball of twine and I unrolled it all in 
a heap and mussed it all up and am going 
to unsnarl it instead of working at my beans. 
They are getting worn out — “ split up ” like 
the chickens’ bills. I have not begun at it 
yet for I lost the end letting go to hide it 
under the cushion when I heard them coming. 
Once I find that again it will be easy enough. 

How many hours I sit and think of Sir 
Philip’s “ seeled dove,” who, “ the blinder 
she was, the higher she strove.” 

In some moods I feel myself labouring up- 
wards — like a rocket that last instant before 
it breaks and sheds its seeds. It seems to 
despair of further heights, and yet will not 
I5i 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


give over the effort after starting up so 
proudly. It tries one angle and another until 
it bursts and falls — the very element of fire 
within, which would not yield, is the glory 
of its failure. Humility outshines ambition. 

I labour upward, but not up; and my fail- 
ures are not bursts of flame and glory. Still, 
since my eyes have been “ seeled,” I am sure 
I have striven higher. I wish I did not know 
how eyes came to be “ seeled.” 

It is rather surprising that the imagination 
of the blind dwells so much more satisfactorily 
upon sky-scapes than land-scapes. Can it be 
that our admiration for the latter has been 
more freely expressed, and partly exhausted, 
while the skies have had only our silent and 
involuntary homage so long, that there is an 
accumulation of enthusiasm ready to break 
out when the other avenue of ecstasy is cut 
off? 

I begged Amy to reread that sentence from 
Emil Hennequin till I could repeat it to my- 
self — 

“ The sharp peaks point the extreme pin- 
nacles of their rocks towards the unknown 
and magnificently vaulted abysms, vermeil 
and tenebrous, whence spread the imperious 
splendour of the Sun, the playful sweetness of 

152 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


the Moon and the peace of the mysteriously 
palpitating stars.” 

Peace and palpitation, here so contradic- 
tory, there may go hand in hand. Peace — 
no longer negative, but rich with throbbing 
life and action. 

“ The peace of the mysteriously palpitating 
stars ” — It is not the peace which is mysteri- 
ous, but the palpitation. Where is the heart 
of which the throbbing star is the pulse ? 

I go on and on, tearing a thought to tatters 
until I bring up with a smash against my 
sense of the ridiculous. It reminds me of the 
stone wall Otis Eaton built at the foot of the 
long hill in his pasture where the boys used 
to coast. Arthur said he built it so they 
would have “ a handy place to stop.” They 
had always come down the hill for a start, 
and half a mile over the pond on the strength 
of it, up to that time. 

Helen pricks some of my bubbles. Til 
have to suck my poetic lollypops by myself 
if she is too much of a Philistine. She gave 
me a bit of Polynesian cosmogony, apropos 
of my Hennequin. To them the universe is 
a huge calabash — a gourd, of which the earth 
is the body, the sky the cover, seeds the stars, 
and pulp the clouds. All this the Supreme 
153 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


One carries slung in a net of which the rain- 
bow is the handle. That last touch almost 
redeems the whole. 


Do you recall that once upon a time, when 
Edmund Burke was careening through a 
speech, he made the remarkable and incon- 
trovertible statement that “ bulls shut their 
eyes when they push ” ? He must have been 
a close observer, and had remarkable facilities 
for investigations. 

I remember to have read of a girl who 
saw an angry bull, but “ being timersome, 
shut her eyes all the time she was seeing it ” 
as most anyone would do. 

After all, I believe there is an instinct to 
close the eyes at the instant of exerting un- 
usual physical force. Even electric cars shut 
off lights on up grades. I cannot imagine 
anyone firing a gun without shutting his eyes. 
It is a merciful offset to the discovery of ex- 
plosives that the exploder is momentarily 
sightless. 

I have run off the track somewhere. I had 
not finished about the bull. The Philistines 
thought Samson could work better, evidently, 
154 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 

without his eyes, and so with the blinded 
oxen. 

Apropos of the blinded bullocks, where did 
we read that the Scythians used to blind the 
slaves whose principal occupation was to 
churn? If they could work no better, they 
could not run away. I presume there was a 
conservation of energy that made them more 
energetic as Samson was — “.eyeless at Gaza, 
grinding at the mill.” I know I hunt for my 
bean more industriously than I could if I had 
my sight, — or any sight at all. 


Poor dear Amy ! Such a pathetic little 
thing happened ! You know they don’t like 
my bean-hunts and when I get them to bring 
the bag they will often make me promise 
when they go away that I will not find it but 
once. I do not remember what made me 
think, but one time when I had not really 
promised I hunted through and found four 
beans. I did not tell them, dear hearts. I 
fear that they plan and worry about me more 
than I know. 

I threw out all the beans but one; at least 
I think there is only one left, and when I 
could not find it last night, I begged Amy to 
155 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


look and see if it was surely there, and she 
said, “ Yes,” but put her head down on my 
shoulder and sobbed, “ Oh, Oudene ! ” 

“ You are too tired, little sister,” was all 
the comfort I could give her, so she went 
for the Bible and read. 

There are Helen and Amy back from their 
drive. I really wish we could have more 
time, though I have no doubt you are tired 
enough I get along so slowly. My rosaries 
and snarls and beans engross too much of my 
attention. 

Haven’t I told you about my rosaries? I 
have three, one Buddhist, one Mohammedan 
and a real Christian one. Each Christian bead 
represents a prayer; each Moslem bead one 
of the ninety-nine names of God. The Bud- 
dhist beads I do not understand, but Mr. Ken- 
nedy does. 


XXVII 


T HE usual Sabbath day’s journey for able- 
bodied Newtonians was to the grave- 
yard, out of the village and a mile from the 
church toward Town Hill. I had to learn 
that a grave-yard might be also a church-yard 
from later observation and experiences which 
puzzled me not a little from their incongruity. 
I could not see how a procession could get 
the proper perspective, and fore-shortening de- 
prived it of all dignity as I imagined it. 

“ Under the pines ” was the village phrase. 
No one in our Newton ever would have said 
“ When I am dead and gone ” in the brusque 
way I have heard it, but “ When I’m under 
the pines.” 

I do not know how many ages ago those 
pines began the prelude to their requiem. 
Never since the Lanesboro pioneers came into 
the forest and cut down their age-long fellows 
has it been intermitted. The sough of them 
is in my ears and the smell of them is in my 
nostrils, and the feel of their needles under 
my feet this moment. 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


When mother was well, she used to take 
us with her, and we sat on the soft warm 
carpet of brown, while she read to us from 
Peep of day or Precept upon Precept, we, 
meantime, playing with the new tight cones 
or the old brown ones with their hopeless, 
wide-spread — laminae ? What is the right 
name for the scales they are shingled with? 

I remember only once going to the cemetery 
upon a week-day. We must have been pass- 
ing with our fish-poles or our empty berry 
pails. I know Jennie and Louise — I can't 
remember their last names — were with me. 
Jennie’s mother was dead and Louise’s father 
and as soon as we had climbed over the stile 
which served as a horse-block for “ mourn- 
ers,” they with one consent left me standing 
alone and abashed, while they went in opposite 
directions and kneeled each by the grave of 
her dead parent and hid their faces in the 
grass. 

A sense of spiritual inferiority over- 
whelmed me. There was not a grave in the 
whole enclosure I could call my own. I 
slunk back to the stile and sat with my back 
turned to the inhospitable mounds and my 
face to the glowing west dangling my useless 
legs, and was sore wehmuthig to think there 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


were mysteries to which I was an alien. I 
went home doubting whether I was fit to be 
the minister’s daughter any longer. 

I remember that, when the two girls joined 
me after the silent moments at the graves, 
Jennie’s eyes were red and she remarked to 
Louise with some complacency, if not re- 
proach : 

“ I always cry.” 

One Sabbath when mother had gone with 
us rather under protest she wished to read 
to herself in a thick black book she had 
brought in the little basket with the lemon 
which was the usual refreshment. I had 
added to the menu, by permission, a delicious 
combination of granulated sugar and ground 
cinnamon which was folded into the corner 
of a discarded envelope. 

When we had found a sequestered corner, 
mother settled herself with her book and we 
four were to “ walk about very quietly, and 
not step on the graves or pick any flowers — 
the periwinkle and spurge, escaped from 
cultivation, were not taboo — or talk with 
other children beyond the formal “ How do 
you do,” which we never abbreviated on the 
Sabbath. 

We sat down presently and dividing the 
159 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


cinnamon satisfactorily in our mottled palms, 
began to consume it a fingertipful at a time. 
To our sorrow, it was soon gone and we were 
obliged to attack the lemon. 

I presume .we ate it as the Cranford ladies 
their oranges. A hole was made in one end 
and we took turns at it very amicably for a 
long time until it began to show signs of 
diminution. In process of time, however, it 
became so concave under John’s vigorous 
onslaughts that I was obliged to forbid him 
to squeeze it. When he ignored my direc- 
tions I was forced to louder remonstrances 
and at last actually driven to chastisement. 
To that he made manual and pedal protest 
but I had gotten him into position, inverted, 
and was proceeding as in multiplication when 
mother arrived without her book or gloves 
and suspended the operation, howbeit with 
some difficulty, in spite of my ejaculatory ex- 
planations. 

It seemed very inconsistent in her for she, 
herself, advocated corporal punishment and 
administered it, too, in extremis. 

Such crises were not frequent at home, 
but observation convinced us of their oc- 
casional necessity and utility. 

I recall that, once when father and John 
160 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


were the dramatis personae, Hal ran to the 
dining-room and fetched his high-chair which 
he complacently mounted to witness the scene 
at his ease. 

But, on that particular afternoon, John’s 
lamentations were out of all proportion to 
the injuries I intended to inflict, as he would 
have found, if he had waited to see. 

As it was, parishioners, elect and nonelect, 
came like the Roman wolf “ to his crying.” 
Dowm the drive some came and up the walks 
and zigzagging around the graves, to find out 
the cause of the uproar “ in the minister s 
family 

To increase my chagrin, mother gave them 
a very inadequate and superficial explanation 
of the affair, for she herself had not all the 
data and I was not allowed to elucidate mat- 
ters until we reached home. 


Oh, Mr. Nelson finds Helen very interest- 
ing. He was here to-day. It seems he had 
been to the Bennet’s first and no one was in. 
I told him a lot about her girlhood and our 
youthful frolics and boarding-school pranks. 
I was just on the point of suspecting that he 
was leading me on to talk for my own good, 
when he asked about Donald, — Captain Sut- 
161 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


ton, you know. I zvas so foolish the other 
day! 

I told him about their rivalries in class, their 
long engagement through his college and 
professional course, and their happy years to- 
gether. 

Sometimes I think Mr. Nelson has almost 
a morbid interest in matrimony and the re- 
lations of wedded folk. If any man was ever 
wedded to his work he certainly is. He is 
positively almost selfish in it. I hope Mr. 
Kennedy won’t let Amy work the way she 
has been doing lately. In his last letter he 
asked if she was neglecting to work new 
altar-clothes this year. 

If Helen really comes here to live as she 
threatens, he may let her substitute for Amy 
sometimes — if she will. 

After we had talked ourselves into flicker- 
ing silence, he proposed again to read to me. 
This time I begged for an Arabian Night. 
He does not get much light reading. 

As luck would have it, — why is not Luck 
in the Club! — we happened upon the tale of 
the merchant who sat by a well eating dates 
and throwing aside the pips after the fashion 
of picnickers. All of a sudden a Genius arose 
from the earth and said he must kill the un- 
162 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


fortunate merchant because one of the pips 
had put out his son’s eye. 

Genii value themselves to demand a man’s 
life for one of their eyes! My old Anglo 
Saxon book said : “ Fifty shillings for putting 
out the eye of a respectable man.” Amy 
found it for me. If the Genius had taken 
proper care of his son there’d have been no 
trouble. Beside, I don’t see why Jinns and 
Gnomes should have eyes any more than cave 
fish. 

I believe he finished the story, but I don’t 
really remember. When I get off the track 
that way I am as absent-minded as Saint Cuth- 
bert, so absorbed in his devotions that he 
forgot to take off his boots for months to- 
gether. We ought both to be ashamed of 
ourselves. 


I made up my mind last night that I could 

not endure my own remorsefulness any longer 

and the first thing this morning I asked Amy 
when Mr. Kennedy was coming back, and “ I 

had so many things to ask him I could not 
wait much longer.” I did not mean to put that 
last part on, and it took all the edge off my 
confession. I felt a perfect humbug. 

“ Do you really want to see him, Oudene ? ” 

i I * * * * 6 3 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


she asked, in a tone as much too earnest as 
mine had been too flippant. It made my heart 
ache to know how much she cared. 

When you love people don’t you find it a 
great deal harder to bear their imaginary 
troubles, the ones you imagine they have, 
than your own real ones? I lie awake yet 
with my flesh creeping, thinking of the time 
I burned John with the hot spoon I was stir- 
ring in my chocolate, and how it must have 
hurt; yet I don’t suppose it has smarted all 
these years. 

“ Yes, dear,” I said, “ I want to see him 
very much.” She did not notice my emphasis 
on the verb, which God forgive me. 

“ Then I’ll write this minute,” she said with 
a hug, “ and order him home in your name.” 

“ Yes, in my name,” I laughed, and she was 
too happy evidently to suspect me of mocking 
her tone. 

I think I have told you every word so far. 
I do not know that I can tell you the rest, we 
had such a busy day planning. 

She had more done towards her trousseau 
than I suspected and finally asked if I did not 
think May Day would be a lovely time for a 
wedding. I said “ Yes,” and then she said, 
“ It’s to be in October, though — perhaps ! ” 
264 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


I thought of my rosaries to-day and sent 
Mary for them. I get them mixed like 
Nathan’s three rings, but I can always dis- 
tinguish them after a bit. And this reminds 
me. 

I have not been very fortunate with my 
string. I couldn’t find the end, and couldn't 
find it. I am ashamed to tell you that I 
finally broke it to make an end — of my trou- 
bles — I thought, but it was a failure. I had 
not unsnarled a yard of it when off it all came 
and I found I had broken it so near the real 
end ! I knew then there were two ends, the 
other one and the one I had just broken, but 
I could not find either of them and have not 
yet. I almost believe it is infinite — has no 
end. 


I wish I had someone to teach me that sys- 
tem of writing they used to have for us, using 
knotted cords to represent letters or words. 
I forgot whose “ system ” it was. 

We are not going to tell Helen that we have 
sent for Mr. Kennedy but we will let Mr. 
Nelson know. Amy says he will be as happy 
over it as she, almost. If it were generally 
known it would embarrass Amy in many 
ways. I am afraid. I wonder who will do 

165’ 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


her “ Church work ” when she is really mar- 
ried. I suppose at first Mr. Kennedy will 
let her keep on. He has probably promised 
to let her divide her time equally between me 
and it! Such promises are so easy to make! 

I am ashamed that I thought such a thing. 


1 66 


XXVIII 


S PEAKING of light — did you ever think 
how cruel it is? If Darkness has killed 
its thousands, Light has killed its tens of 
thousands. Every lighthouse would be buried 
in its dead, and every gas jet smothered 
and blinded if there were none to remove the 
pitiful creatures — which are just like us only 
smaller. 

Deer are enticed to their death by light, 
ships lured on by wreckers, fish caught by 
torch light, and Helen says the Islanders 
catch octopi and squid by letting fall into the 
water a hook with a cowry, or a mother-of- 
pearl plate attached, which attracts the crea- 
tures as I can well understand. “ The colour 
and lustre of the shell offers an irresistible 
fascination to the octopus ” and he wraps his 
arms about it and is drawn up! Isn’t it 
touching to think of him, ugh ! 

If I could hold in my hand a bit of mother- 
of-pearl or the tiniest cowry and look at it 
one moment it seems to me I should be drunk 
with joy; almost willing to be a squid! 

167 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


Surely it is the light rather than the heat 
that Parsees value ; hence they should be 
called Light rather than Fire-worshippers. 
No Divinity or Sage ever said “ I am the 
Fire ” or “ I am the Heat of the world ” but 
rather " I am the Light.” 


168 


XXIX 


I ’M learning to write with a pin. I prick 
words into a paper — I can write my own 
name so Amy guessed it when she came down. 
We nearly quarrelled because I said it was 
to be read behind on the rough side of course, 
and she insisted upon reading it in front on 
the smooth side. I told her to prick me some 
big words and I would practice reading them 
with my finger tips. 

“ They are as numb now as if they were 
shod with hoofs, but they can learn,” I in- 
sisted. 

“ But, Oudene dear,” she groaned, “ you 
can’t read by the wrong side.” 

I finally began to suspect what the trouble 
was and so I snapped out that she might: 

“ Please go get me a mirror, then, my 
dear ! ” 

This has been one of my very naughtiest 
days — I hope. 

Do you know, sometimes a restlessness 
comes over me that is like insanity — for 
169 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


doesn't sanity like sleep depend upon the 
power to think continuously of one and the 
same thing? 

I will not say I become desperate, for de- 
spair is quite negative, only the absence of 
hope. The feeling I have is most emphatic- 
ally positive and aggressive. My thoughts ex- 
plode. With the old Gael “I am a raven 
that has no home, I am a boat tossing from 
wave to wave, I am a ship that has lost its 
rudder, I am the apple left on the tree." 

“ I am the wind which blows over the sea, 
I am a wave of the deep, I am the bull of 
seven battles, I am the eagle on the rock, I 
am a tear of the Sun, I am a salmon in 
the water, I am a lake in the plain." 

I am all these that others have been, and then 
I am other things that some have dreamed of 
being. 

I am a Gaelic hero “ with seven lights in 
my eyes," I am a doe with “ eyes of Vesper 
gentleness," I am the “ dusky arms " of a 
cloud which strangles the moon in mid career 
— and makes “ day's soft-eyed sister " as 
dark as the world in which we others live — 
for I am one of the Hetaerae now. 

I am the bird of heaven, singing of the 
Seven Steps and of the Five Powers, and the 
170 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


Seven Eyes of God ; I am a harp blown upon 
by “ the great blind forces of Destruction ” ; 
I am a pharos, “ a great red eye ” surveying 
the horizon through the night with my “ cir- 
cular glance.” 

I was counting my blessings — these dif- 
ferent aliases of mine and telling them off on 
my Christian rosary — (It did not seem right 
to make them supplant the names of God on 
the others) — when Cupid came by. 

I told him once that when I got tired of 
the Club I was planning to study up his 
pedigree. I feared he was offended but he 
asked very carelessly to-day if I had his fam- 
ily tree twigged out to my liking. 

I told him “ No,” and that I was going to 
chop it all down, now that I had learned that 
he was the “bastard creation of barbarous 
fancy — laid on the door-step of posterity.” 

I never heard him laugh so, and he made 
me “ say it again ” like an infant. He was 
vexed enough to find that some of it was left 
out and that I did not know who said it. 

That shows just how little moral sense he 
has. Some sons would have been for fight- 
ing a duel over a thing like that. 


XXX 


OU’VE been thinking about my mother? 



And well you may ! We were none of 
us worthy to unloose her latchets ! 

Dear Mother ! she was pretty as a picture, 
and industrious! You can’t think how busy 
she was, sewing and cooking and ironing and 
brushing-up, and combing our hair and con- 
triving our clothes : and all those years with- 
out once stopping she was reading D’Aubigne’s 
History of the Reformation to “keep up” 
with father, you know. 

“ Of course you want to keep his respect,” 
Mrs. Armstrong had said. She always came 
with her husband when he and father ex- 
changed. Father drove up to Hinesburg Sat- 
urday night and stayed at the hotel and then 
came home after the afternoon sermon so they 
could all have a visit and “ family worship 
together Sabbath evening.” Mr. Armstrong 
enjoyed that, he said, having no children of 
his own. One Saturday night our guest-room 


172 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


stove-pipe smoked so that Mrs. Armstrong 
“ never shut her eyes till one o’clock.” She 
said it so many times I know it must have 
been true. Mother and Jennie mended it on 
Sunday! 

That always seems such a problem — how 
to keep your husband’s respect or his love. I 
really think it would be better if the condi- 
tions on which he was to “ love, honour and 
protect ” were incorporated in the service. 
It is so loosely worded! 

Of course you don’t know anything about 
it. I wasn’t blaming you. And I don’t 
know anything about it, for Jack died so early 
— my probation time was not up. 

On Saturday night mother had us all to 
scrub in the tin “ hat.” It was a weekly 
ordeal for her. She began with the youngest 
because it had to go to bed first. If any of 
us made a mistake and sat on the wrong side 
of the hat away from the visor where the 
legs were under, it tipped up and all the 
water was spilled so that the rest of us could 
get no bath. 

Yes, we could too, but* we always told 
mother that, when we were grown up, just 
to plague her. 


173 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


Then there were the shoes to study over 
and blacken, and we all had to run and help 
lubricate the shoe-brush, and mother had to 
deal out the clean clothes for “ to-morrow,” 
— the very word was pronounced reverently. 

It was no small evening’s work to be plagued 
about afterward by ungrateful grown-ups. I 
heard father, too, tell a lady — a city lady — 
that he used to tie up the holes in his stock- 
ings with a string like the end of a bag! 
A man to say that who would have hunted 
in the China closet for his clean shirt as soon 
as in his own “ bottom drawer ” ! We 
learned very early that there were times when 
our father was not a good pattern for our 
talk ! 

One of those Saturday nights, I remember 
Margaret was all ready for her turn, when 
there was a rap at the door, and old Miss 
King came in for a call. 

Mother had stuck Margaret into the closet, 
supposing the sacred bath hour would be 
respected even by those who were not per- 
forming their own ablutions as they should 
be. 

I was lying down with Hal while he went 
to sleep and he kept on cooing as if he knew 
I was all a-quiver to creep away as soon as 
174 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


ever he dropped off. Alice was finished and 
tucked in, already sound asleep. 

Miss King had not “ been done right by ” 
and she had a long tale. There Margaret 
stood, poor little sleepy thing, almost an hour 
for mother thought surely Miss King would 
go in another minute. I really believe her 
pre-occupation and mis-fit answers multiplied 
the repetitions and explanations. Miss King 
was Sophi Kirby's sister and they were both 
so touchy mother would not have dared let 
her see she was worried, she had almost 
“ lifted her letter ” once already. 

It seemed hours to me before she went and 
there Margaret was, shivering away. She 
would no more have peeped than a little 
partridge under a leaf. 


At last Mr. Nelson and I have had a long 
talk about Amy. I told him how happy I 
was in her joy and several things equally 
original. That I had not the least presenti- 
ment that I should be lonelier : that Mr. Ken- 
nedy would be an unfailing source of enter- 
tainment to me. 

He seemed very much “ pleased and re- 
lieved ” as he put it, that I took the view of 
it I did. God forgive him ! 

175 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


Then we talked on about Amy while I tried 
to think how I could hint that he would be 
wise to find a helpmate for himself. I did 
not manage it, fearing his celibacy notions, 
but I shall think of a way sometime. 

We talked about her prettinesses and dear- 
nesses and goodnesses. He ought to ap- 
preciate her after all the help she has been 
to him, and he does, but he does not seem to 
realise what it will be to have her time taken 
up with home work as it must be. We shall 
not dismiss Mary and Abram necessarily but 
of course she ought not to have time for out- 
side things. “ She can’t leave me to amuse 
Mr. Kennedy all the time,” I laughed. “ I’ll 
need her help.” 

Poor Mr. Nelson! He takes it so cheer- 
fully. He will find out later the “ expulsive 
power of a new affection.” 

We talked about Mr. Kennedy too. I said 
I had long ago given him a brother’s place 
in my heart. It seems he has cabled from 
London for a refusal of the Governor Ap- 
pleton property next door to us — with a 
beautiful lawny grove between. I forget you 
can see it ! 

Amy never told me that. I supposed they 
would live on here. It is just as well not. I 
176 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


fancy Mr. Kennedy has a go-down full of 
cabinets and rugs and cash-chests somewhere. 
No one ever went to the East without com- 
ing back with a gnawing and corroding de- 
sire to fit out a house all himself — a com- 
posite Brahmo-Chinese, Japanned affair, with 
kakamono alcoves and a Diwan-i-Am and a 
Diwan-i-Khas and a Peacock Throne for 
aught I know. 

Never mind ! It does not matter to me 
what sort of mixture it is! It cannot offend 
my eyes. 


How I hate to get those old Moguls on my 
mind ! The conquering Pathan kneeling on 
the breast of one in Agra Fort and gouging 
out one eye, then telling his attendants to do 
the other, is as bad as Shakspeare and runs in 
my mind like a pink-trip-slip and a five-cent 
fare. Helen came in just then. 

Do you know — Amy asked her to tell me 
that they thought of having the wedding 
earlier — perhaps next month to suit the 
Bishop’s convenience. 

“ Oh, my dear ! ” I cried, “ Send her to 
me. Why should she dread to tell me her- 
self ? ” But she was away and I had hours 
to wait. 


177 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


She sobbed on my shoulder when she came 
in, until I had comforted her. 

“ When will Mr. Kennedy arrive ? ” I 
asked. 

She gave me a quick hug before she said, 
“ Saturday, dear ! ” 

Carlyle says everything is sudden to the 
blind, but some things are suddener than 
others. Her next question was more sudden 
than ever : 

“ And you will come to the wedding, 
Oudene ? ” 

I could not say No, much as I should pre- 
fer it, and vigorously as I thought it. I only 
answered : 

“ We’ll seer 

“Don’t, Oudene,” she groaned. I fear I 
have given myself those morbid digs, just for 
fun, until she is on the lookout for them con- 
stantly. I must break myself of it; they 
annoy the others too. 

I suppose I must go to the wedding, now 
that I am committed and see the thing 
through. 


178 


XXXI 


I ’M going to tell you about our exchanges 
to-day, and we will not talk of anything, 
please, before we get at it. 

I do not suppose father exchanged with 
his brother ministers more than three or four 
times a year, but when I look back it seems 
oftener, as telegraph poles multiply in the 
distance. 

When those strange men came to be en- 
tertained it is a miracle how we ever did it. 
The guest-room had to be made ready and 
the study had to be swept and dusted after 
father had gone. We did not dare touch it 
while he was there, and would not then ex- 
cept to avert the scandal of exposure to a 
stranger. 

There was always something queer about 
every exchange, I remember. One was 
named Lyon and we did not know how to 
spell it so we sat shivering on the bottom 
step until the breakfast bell should rouse him 
from his lair, to seek what he might devour. 
179 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


The only leonine feature about him proved 
to be his name. 

One, Mr. Baker, had been gored by a bull 
and always told us about the scars on his 
chest but did not let us see them. 

A Mr. Arnold we all liked. Once he 
came early so that he might have a talk 
with father before he got away. I heard 
him say that some “ good man, too,” a pred- 
ecessor of his was “ so all-killing pious they 
could not live with him,” in Orange! 

Mr. Hooper, who always brought us can- 
dies, had married the daughter of the lady 
who gave us “ Shakspeare and his Friends ” 
that hung in the parlour for Aunt Hoyt to 
look at when we were not there. We 
thought his visits all too far apart. 

Mr. Ward only came once — but that was 
enough. He stood stock-still in the pulpit, 
right in the middle of his sermon when I had 
to take Margaret home one day. You’ve no 
idea how many miles it was down that aisle 
or how many eyes there were, not only in 
people’s heads but all through space — like 
the smiles of Cheshire cats. 

When I told father upon his return, with 
great indignation, he said mother should have 
put us out through the window at the end 
180 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


of our pew. For the first time, I wished that 
he sat in the seat with us like other fathers. 
Mother never thought of things like that! 

After Mr. Beaman was there father asked 
mother if he smiled all the while he was 
preaching. She did not know, having seen 
only his profile. “ I never saw him stop 
smiling but once in the pulpit/ ” father added, 
“ and that was when he lost his place.” All 
our ministers read their sermons then. Peo- 
ple were more exacting and critical than they 
are in these loose times. 


Twice I remember father’s bringing a book 
down from the study to read something to 
mother. Once it was some stupid stuff and 
we had to be reprimanded for disturbing them. 
The other time I am sure it must have been 
Tam O’Shanter. All five of us capered 
around in our glee and Hal fairly screwed a 
hole in his apron pretending he understood it. 

I want to tell you more about the other 
children but always relapse into reminis- 
cences — perhaps because I am wondering if 
I am quite at liberty to do even as I would 
be done by. 

We were quite normal minister’s children 
— not the proverbial kind in the least. 

181 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


John was very emphatic. That is not 
quite the word, either, and positive won’t do. 
He regarded his statements as axioms and 
we learned that it saved time to let them go at 
that. If his word was challenged in earlier 
years he considered a sepulchral “ I prove 99 
an end to all controversy. 

Margaret was tragic, violent. She was a 
conscientious mother to her dolls who found 
her a kind but not an indulgent parent. She 
whipped them with a vigour Xerxes’ flagel- 
lants might have emulated, and did it with 
her tongue gnashed between her teeth with 
a sort of triple-lipped effect which we all de- 
lighted to imitate. Bless her heart ! How I 
did love her. 

Her maternal feelings were wantonly out- 
raged on one occasion. Father and mother 
had gone to a funeral which put us upon the 
idea that we would have some obsequies in 
honour of her Martha, whose neck had re- 
cently been broken. She howled and la- 
mented on the bottom door-step, but we pro- 
ceeded with singing, prayer, reading of 
obituary, sermon, and finally interment. 

She never forgot or forgave us, and years 
after, when her canary died, she buried it in 
the middle of the gravel walk, and grimly 
182 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


watched us hold a funeral under every tree in 
the yard, hoping thus to make sure of the site. 

If I must say it, that shouldn’t, I was the 
soul of family pride and more ambitious for 
“ the children’s ” success than any of them. 
Like Rousseau I considered their reputations 
as valuable an asset as their characters, 
though, as I found later, that was rank heter- 
odoxy in New England. 

I think it is La Harpe who says that the 
chimera of perfection has caused more misery 
than any other that ever infested the world. 

I had, intermittently, a burning zeal to 
secure the complete sanctification of all the 
younger members of the family. I longed to 
correct any imperfection that I detected and 
felt my lack of authority a misfortune all 
around. 

I was telling Mr. Kennedy about it once 
and he took occasion to congratulate me upon 
my success. He never knew Alice but re- 
members her in our pew at church — our dar- 
ling and beauty ! 

Hal asked to see her once and when he was 
told that there would be only bones in the 
little coffin, begged that when he went to 
Heaven he might be allowed to take his bones 
with him. 


183 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


For myself I meant to be a very good little 
girl so that Fd not have any naughty words 
or acts to mourn over afterward. When 
mother died — which would probably be in 
seven or eight years if she lived to be thirty- 
six like grandmother, — a ripe old age, it 
seemed! — I should have to take things in 
charge. I planned a very delightful funeral 
and shed my full quota of tears many times 
over, going through the agony of parting and 
committment with unfeigned distress. 

After that I was going to bring up the 
children to be good men and women — com- 
posing exhortations and reproofs suitable for 
sundry occasions, and divers infractions of 
my precepts. There would probably be a 
good many more of us by that time. I wor- 
ried a great deal about my ability to manage 
the then infant. 

All these lamentations and resolutions came 
after I had been sent to bed — before I fell 
asleep. 


184 


XXXII 


A RE you ready now? 

We used to be very studious of our 
father’s moods and of mother’s too. As for 
father, sometimes it was safe to approach him 
on one subject, sometimes, on another; some- 
times, on any, often on none. 

We were studious of our mother’s igno- 
rances, which we did our best to conserve. 
She often said “ Yes,” because she did not 
know the risk involved, when father would 
have said “ No.” It was she that let us go 
over to Mr. Dick’s barn and help husk corn, 
and father that put a stop to it. Once father 
had shaken his ambrosial locks we were never 
to ask her, and his nod was only revocable by 
himself, but if mother had said yes he still 
had the power to veto and it behooved us to 
shun him. 

I tell Helen I used to pity her because her 
Aunt Julia always had to have a finger in her 
pies. We were grateful, as a last resort, that 
with all our distresses we had no aunts. 

185 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


“ Do you remember,” Helen asked, “ how 
we used to go in pairs and trios, when any- 
thing had gone wrong, from one mother to 
another and help each other “ tell ”? 

Whether it helped or not depended upon 
whether the “ other girls ” were adroit 
enough to take the blame all on themselves at 
the crucial moment. That was fair enough, 
for each individual was innocent in turn. 

Yet I would not for a moment admit that 
we were little hypocrites. 


There were three consecutive days upon 
which father said “ Yes ” to every request I 
made. There was a tacit understanding be- 
tween us, and this was the way of it. 

I lay awake one night so long that father 
came down from the study to read a few pages 
of his embryo sermon to mother, who was 
already in bed. Before he began I asked for 
“ something to eat.” They tried to convince 
me that I was not famished and recited the 
menu of our supper. It was no use, I was 
“ hungry.” At last father yielded and 
brought me a slice of bread generously but- 
tered. 

After a bite or two, I asked if I might have 
a cracker or a doughnut instead. The in- 
186 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


gratitude and interruption combined to bring 
upon me a vial of wrath and I “ finished my 
bread,” since the alternative was to “ go 
hungry.” In the morning it transpired that 
he had mistaken the lard for butter. He did 
not apologise, but was so pathetically com- 
pliant that I was very sorry for him and glad 
when we regained our normal status. 


187 


XXXIII 



E stumbled upon Father Prout last 


» * night, Amy and I. She did not put 
away the book until I could repeat : “ I pro- 
test to heaven that were I, while wandering in 
the gloomy forest, to meet on my dreary path, 
the small faint glimmer of a glowworm, I 
should shudder at the thought of crushing 
with my foot that dim speck of brilliancy, and 
were it only for its being akin to brighter 
rays, honouring it for its relation to the stars, 
I would not harm the little lamplighter as 
I passed.” Father Prout must have been blind 
or he would not have had that feeling for a 
bit of light. 


They are all so busy and so happy! Amy 
is waiting for Mr. Kennedy as impatiently as 
if she were a little child. Her heart is so full 
it fairly bubbles over. 

“ How pretty you are, Oudene ! ” she said 
to-day. “ Your grey hair is prettier than the 
gold ever was.” I wonder’ that it did not 
look golden to her yet ! 


1 88 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


Mr. Nelson came just after she had gone 
and asked: 

“ What is that you are chanting, Mrs. 
De Lon?” 

“ Something lovely from Virgil,” I replied. 

“ Tell me and see if I know it,” he begged. 

“ I’ll try,” I laughed, “ I have it by heart,” 
and I put on a stage voice, and pounded on the 
ictus as we used to do at school : “ Monstrum, 
horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen ad- 
emptum!” I ended triumphantly. 

He had tried to stop me, but I said it 
through and was sorry the moment after, for 
he reproached me in a passion of pity and 
affection. 

I hurt my friends a thousand times more 
than I do myself. I am cauterised, paralysed, 
benumbed, stolid, insensible as the South Sea 
Islander who chops off a toe that he may 
wear a pair of cast-off shoes that are too 
small for him. 

“ I am going to bed early,” I said to Amy 
a little later. 

“ You are not going to bed early,” she 
replied, and they all came out and sat on the 
porch and hemmed me in till the wee small 
hours — Bless their kind hearts ! 

Good -night. 


189 


XXXIV 


1 WAS glad to be interrupted last time. 

I was as bored as you were I am sure. 
I do not wonder you have stayed away. Amy 
said you were to be out of town. 

Mr. Kennedy came a week ago and prep- 
arations go on apace. If they only would not 
insist on my going to the wedding! I told 
them they did not “ need me for a witness/' 
but they are very urgent. I wish I had had 
courage to say “ No/’ at once. Amy does 
really care very much and so does Mr. Ken- 
nedy. He is not so busy as the rest — “ until 
time for the rehearsal.” He laughed when I 
asked how he had so much time to read to 
me. 

When I begged him last night to help get 
me excused from going he was as obstinate 
as the rest. 

“ I won’t go if you don’t,” he said and Amy 
said the same. 

“ Then be married here where I can sit be- 
hind my vines,” I laughed, willing enough to 
shock poor Mr. Nelson. 

190 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


“We could do that, couldn’t we?” she re- 
plied. 

“ If the Bishop approved,” Mr. Kennedy 
answered, doubtfully. 

“ Of course I’ll go,” I said to him later, 
“ but since He has set darkness in my paths, 
I doubt his expecting me to walk in them 
very often.” 

“ He has not made you halt as well as 
blind,” he replied, “ and he has promised to be 
a ‘ Lamp unto your pathway ’ ! ” 

I did not think he knew his Bible so well, 
or thought that way about it. He spoke most 
reverently. 

I ended weakly : “ It is not pleasant to have 
people behold you when you have no idea by 
whom you are beholden.” 

There was a long pause before he asked : 

“ Do you study up things like that, Oudene, 
dear?” patting my hand just the least little 
bit. I jumped a little, for I thought some- 
thing might have dropped on it — a spider did 
yesterday. 

“ Pardon me,” he begged, and I ought to 
have explained but did not quickly enough — 
then it was too late. 

I told him again how very, very glad I was 
that he had come, and that I was so glad for 
191 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


Amy, and how happy she had been, and I was 
so sorry she had doubted for a moment my 
delight in her joy. 

He seemed very happy about it, and he 
certainly appreciates Amy. 

I told him many of my hopes for her future 
and some of my pet theories about married 
life. He fell in with them all and added some 
of his own I had not thought about. Even 
those dreadful Indian customs suggest some 
important and rather novel ideas. 

Amy came then and wanted him to walk 
over to the church with her. When they 
were beyond my ear-sight I sat at first a 
trifle lonely, and then I remembered the spider 
and fell to thinking of all the little bugs walk- 
ing up and down the vine stalks, and down 
among the roots of the grass. How much 
they know that we do not, and what impor- 
tant affairs two crickets may have to 
discuss when they meet by accident at one of 
their cross-roads. Did I read that or think 
it ? 

Think of the excitement of being an ant 
sent as a spy to some hostile camp or to 
bring home the body of a dead hero! What 
if you were a wounded fly and a great ser- 
pent came along as big as a knitting needle to 
192 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


swallow you, or if you were a poor little 
snakelet just out of the egg that couldn’t find 
its mother! 

T ruly, did you know that when a snake shed 
its skin, the old skin always separated about 
the eyes first and made it look as if it were 
blind ? 

I was never afraid of a deserted skin be- 
cause the eyes were gone. Once at school 
Helen wrote a poem in place of a composi- 
tion. It was about an empty snake-skin — 
a Pearly-Nautilus sort of thing with a dash 
of Yorick in it — and very absurd. 

I remember someone spoke of deer shed- 
ding their horns and Will Abbot had “ never 
heard of such a thing.” We told him all 
about it “ honest and true ” and he listened 
respectfully. 

“ Do they shed their tails too ? ” he asked. 

A footnote once said that when some very 
old graves were opened and exploited in Eng- 
land somewhere, there were no eye-holes in 
the skulls. There were some strange surmises 
as to what sort of people they had been — or 
hadn’t. The old sexton explained it to them 
by saying that dead people almost always 
turned over in their coffins. Sure enough, 
the eye-holes were underneath all right. 
193 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


Everyone was so glad to know they had not 
been blind. 


Cupid and I were talking about Hymen. 
Cupid feels discouraged at the way he is likely 
to turn out. When they were younger Hymen 
seemed to be as bright as any of the family. 

“ I don’t know why he is getting to be so 
unpopular,” he went on. “ He is the most 
conscientious urchin in all God-dom. I think 
it is because he can see. He is charged with 
showing partiality and all that foolishness.” 

I suggested that he was too conservative 
and Cupid caught it up! 

“ He never was one of the wide-awake, 
progressive kind. He stuck to old-fashioned 
notions, said “ let well enough alone ” and 
“ rolling stones gathered no moss.” 

There always will be one in a big family 
like theirs who falls behind. It is usually the 
younger ones. The brains run out. 

Of course, too, there was considerable con- 
flict between his vocation or avocation and 
Cupid’s. He tried to interfere in the cases 
Cupid had taken up, and Cupid did not like 
that. He complains too that when he starts 
in with a case Cupid will not help him on. 

He does, though. I heard him laughing 
194 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


down under the rose-bush one day, and he ex- 
plained that he had been shooting an old 
curmudgeon over in Balton who had been 
tyrannizing over a loving little wife for ten 
years. When I hoped that he had pulled 
the arrow out of her to do it with, so that he 
might know what it was not to be loved, 
he became quite serious and said he believed 
I was as wicked as he. 

He “ wanted to do that very thing ” but 
said it would be misery and Hades to be loved 
by such a creature if one had not love to 
make her blind to his wnloveliness. He did 
not want her last end to be worse than the 
first. 

“ At least,” he said, playing a little tune 
on his bowstring, “he’ll be miserable with 
jealousy. He’ll never see her look toward a 
man without suspecting her of having that 
in her eyes which he has seen in other 
women’s.” 


Oh, my dear ! How good you are to come 
down for a bedtime chat. Helen and Amy 
are packing for the little journey which I beg 
them not to make too short. 

Mr. Nelson came and sat with me, until 
195 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 

the Bishop walked by and asked him to come 
for a walk to the Falls by moonlight. 

Mr. Kennedy talked as quietly to me about 
our India as if to-morrow were just a com- 
mon day. Yet he is the last man one would 
suspect of being insensible or blase or non- 
chalant even. I cannot imagine him with the 
usual masculine contempt for sentiment, and 
I am sure he’s too genuine to be bored. 

He is the only one that never cringes at 
mention of eyes, unless I do it myself, like a 
mental degenerate. 

I told him to-night that I was trying to 
think out a list of Monoculars ; a few of us 
thought of a by-law to make them honourary 
members, like the ex-blinds. 


There is such a list of monoculars! All 
the Virtues seem to be among them, but we 
have not thought of any vices. We take the 
conventional classification. 

We hear of the eye of Truth, and the eye 
of Reason, in the grandest of our hymns! 

We even sail into the Wind’s eye and worry 
about the view that may be taken of our 
troubles by the “ eye of the Law.” 

I don’t mention the eye of Faith because 
she’s blind. That’s only a figure of speech. 

196 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


I am so sorry you are not to be here for 
the wedding. Amy suspects, dear, that you 
prefer not to be. Do weddings seem oppres- 
sively sad to you still ? 

How lovely that honey-suckle is! 

When I woke this morning and the fra- 
grance filled the room, I thought of Victor 
Hugo, and loved him for saying that every 
plant was a lamp and its perfume was its 
light. 

It helped me to excuse my ecstasy in fra- 
grance, which I feared was sensuous. 


197 


XXXV 


O H, my dear ! my dear ! Where have you 
been these days when I needed you 

most? 

No, I did not wish for you, but I needed 
you. How could you let me go on so 
blindly? 

Amy has told you ! Never mind if she has 
told you a thousand times, I am going to tell 
you myself. She can’t show you it from my 
point of view. When she realised it all she 
just threw herself on her knees and hugged 
me and laughed and then cried and brought 
Mr. Nelson to help her do both. Why didn’t 
you tell her what a wild goose chase my 
thoughts were on? She would have put me 
right in a moment. 

You never suspected? You must have sus- 
pected. I have you both to forgive — some- 
time. 

I’m glad now that you weren’t at the wed- 
ding. Amy took more pains with my toilet 
than she did with her own. She made me 
198 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


wear roses, though I insisted upon some 
pressed autumn leaves, scarlet ones, which are 
really brighter than roses. Then I remem- 
bered “ the perfume of the flowers is its 
flame ” and let her pin on the roses to give 
me light. 

Mr. Kennedy put on my shawl, and when 
I thanked him, asked: 

“ Isn’t it Alfred, yet? ” 

Just the least suspicion of accent on the 
“ yet ” grated a bit, but I said bravely : 

“ Alfred, henceforth, of course.” 

“ And Oudene ? ” 

“ Yes, Oudene.” He has called me that 
once or twice but has forgotten, and I am 
glad to know that he has. 

Mr. Nelson gave me his arm to the church, 
and I knew how beautiful the tender leaves 
and mossy trunks were, and the little church 
with its vines whose rosy baby fingers were 
spread out to clutch the grey stone. He took 
me into the vestry and they all helped me 
to my seat in the shadow of the screen. 

After a long delay, while I heard the 
friendly people filling the church to its doors, 
there was a rustle — the organ changed. 
“ Oh, Jack!” I groaned within myself — 
a door opened. I caught the swish of muffled 
199 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


skirts — a hush came over all, the Bishop’s 
voice was drowned by the rushing thoughts — 
I prayed for my precious sister — until I heard 
the words : 

“ I, Edward, take thee, Amy ” — 

“ I, Edward, take thee, Amy ” — 

I do not know what happened. I did not 
cry out that there was a mistake, that I knew 
why that man and woman should not be 
joined together. It was too late : I was al- 
ready committed forever to hold my peace. 
It was so dreadful that I had to cry — so 
absurd I had to laugh. 

When had they made the change, I thought 
next. Within three days Amy had been go- 
ing on about Mr. Kennedy as only a bride 
could do. Helen talked only about him ! — 
and you ! 

We have all and always loved Mr. Nelson. 
I did not notice anything unusual in what was 
said of him. 

I got myself in hand before they came to 
me and they never suspected how disappointed 
I had been. 

We were sure of Mr. Nelson anyway — 
don’t you see. We did not need to marry 
him to keep him with us. Now Mr. Kennedy 
may go anytime and break up our party. 

200 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


The Bishop gave me his arm and we went 
into the empty church after it was over, and 
walked about while I explained to him the 
various interesting “ stations.” 

The brass for father is new since he was 
here, and says boldly that he did not Succeed 
Apostolically. 

We walked home just as the sky must have 
been aflame with glory. 

The Bishop quoted, and I begged him to re- 
peat, which he said was quite an unusual 
compliment to the clergy: 

“ By the firmament of clouds the purple 
veil is closed at evening, round the sanctuary 
of his rest.” 

“ He rejoices as a bridegroom,” he added 
reverently, “ to draw the splendour of his cur- 
tain behind him.” 


I don’t know how we got through the 
breakfast that day — wedding guests always 
seem to have been fasting. 

“ Oudene,” Helen exclaimed, “ you are 
actually hilarious.” And Mr. Nelson — I 
don’t know when I shall learn to call him Ed- 
ward — said reproachfully : 

“ She is her own dear self again, Mrs. 
Sutton.” 


201 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


When Amy was properly doffed and 
donned and there were threats of rice, and 
rumble of wheels, the child ran out to me 
and threw her arms about my neck, sobbing 
as if her heart would break. 

“ Dear, dear Oudene,” she whispered, “ Tve 
seen through it all. You have worn your old 
bright look and been your own gay self just 
for me. I did not mean to force you to such 
an effort, dear. How can I leave you a whole 
week ? ” 

“ Oh, Amy,” I groaned, “ don’t pity me. 
You are all of you stiff, stock, stone, sand, 
gravel, purb\md\ All my months’ prayers 
have gang agley. I wish I had not prayed for 
you at all ! ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” she had been beg- 
ging. “ What do you mean, Oudene ? ” 

“ You — you’ve married the wrong man,” 
I half whispered and half sobbed — not want- 
ing the rest to know. “ You’ve cheated me, 
defrauded me of my proper brother-in-law.” 

“ Oh, my Oudene,” she cried, “ I never 
dreamed.” 

“ It was not necessary,” I interrupted, “ I 
did the dreaming,” — and then we both 
laughed — and cried too. 

“ How could you think,” she began, — 

202 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


“ Because I had to see with my ears,” I 
said. “ My fingers were all thumbs as far as 
eyes were concerned.” 

“ Did you fancy I was to endow Abram 
with all my worldly goods ? ” she enquired. 

“ Don’t, Amy,” I begged. “ You have all 
talked of no one but Mr. Kennedy these 
months past.” 

“ Sh,” she whispered, with another hug, 
“ they’re coming for me. How can I leave 
you so ? Mr. Kennedy ! ” 

There was kissing, laughter, confusion and I 
whispered, “ Don’t betray me, dear.” 

I needed the next hour of quiet and was 
gratified to be left alone. 

How could I have gotten myself into a posi- 
tion so dreadfully, so hopelessly absurd! I 
had not thought my way out of it when they 
came back from the station — Helen and Mr. 
Kennedy. It was early still, they said, and 
they entertained me most diligently for an 
hour or so. 

Helen talked about Newton and Mr. Ken- 
nedy of India, but I was not half attending, 
and finally they said good-night — though 
Helen offered to stay. 

I had a long think after that. You may 
be sure I needed one. 

203 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


Some of the Club friends passed and spoke, 
but I did not ask them to stop. 

When Mary came I went to bed obediently, 
but I could not sleep. After the frogs and 
tree-toads and all the rest became quiet the 
time dragged on and on. At last when I 
thought it must be almost light I got up very 
quietly and crept out to the verandah. I did 
not want to walk there for fear my steps 
would waken Mary, so I went down under 
the pear trees and walked up and down a 
couple of hours. 

When I was tired and thought I could get 
a nap on the lounge I was coming back, feel- 
ing my way, panic-stricken all of a sudden, 
when I’d not once thought of fear before. 
Suddenly a surprised voice called : 

“ Qui vive? ” 

I knew it was Mr. Kennedy, and before I 
stopped to ask what he was doing out there 
in the middle of the night, I replied: 

“ I am the Cat, that Walks in the Dark, 
in the Wet Wild Woods, by my Wild lone, 
and all places are alike to me.” 

“ Well,” he replied, taking my hand, “ the 
wet wild cat had better come in from the 
wet wild woods or she will catch cold. It 
204 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


rained in the night. Has she been to break- 
fast? 

My dear! it was half past eight o’clock. 
There had been a heavy thunderstorm in 
the night. Mary had heard Johnny Anson 
running over for the doctor about three 
o’clock; she knew the baby must be worse 
and Amy gone ; — so had dressed and come 
in to tell me that she was going, but found 
me sleeping so soundly that she would not 
waken me; the postman had brought the let- 
ters and slammed the door as usual ; the very 
birds were singing, and strangest of all Abram 
had said to Mr. Kennedy : 

“ I saw Miss Oudene,” (he never remem- 
bers about Jack) “ go down the path about 
ten minutes ago, sir.” 

Surely all times are alike to me ! I can see 
that a thousand years might be as one day. 

Was it yesterday that I wore white aprons 
which covered me all up, and pushed my hair 
all straight back with a round comb, — or 
was it a thousand years ago ? — Or some other 
If 


205 


XXXVI 


I WANT you all day to-day, the rest are 
so busy. 

Vathek was an interesting man. He had a 
wonderful palace, Mr. Kennedy says. I try 
to fancy what was in it, pictures I suppose. 
They are wonderfully adapted to the eye. 
Sculpture is more for us. I wonder if, in 
art galleries, they might not reserve the 
sculpture rooms for the blind on one day of 
the week ? The statues could be washed 
afterwards — or fumigated — or stay dirty 
like gods. Forgive me — that was petty ! 

. . . Yes, but we are to pluck it out 

if it offends us — not others. I wonder if the 
right eye is as much more useful than the 
left, as the right hand. There would not be 
much choice between the right and left foot. 
Telephones are developing left ears, I presume. 
Do you suppose we say the left hand because 
the right one was always the one to be cut 
off as a punishment? When their dead are 
laid in the Towers of Silence the Parsees set a 
206 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


watch to see which eye the vultures take first. 


Amy said once she believed I idolised the 
James’ baby — just because I like to have 
something warm in my arms. I assured her 
my idolatrous days were over. One can’t 
have an idol unless one can see it. The very 
word means a thing that can be seen. Thanks 
to Carlyle for that bit of comfort ! 

Amy is coming to-night — she wrote Helen, 
who has been busy with Mary all day getting 
things ready. 

Mr. Kennedy asked if he might read to 
me this forenoon. “ What in ? ” I asked, and 
to my surprise he said, “ The Bible.” 

I never let him know how much I enjoy 
his reading because he might feel it his duty 
to offer to do it. He reads slowly, and with- 
out the least emphasis. It is almost as if I 
were reading myself and getting the pure 
word without any meaning pinned to it. 
There is more temptation to stop and discuss 
because the sense of it is not already settled 
before I get a chance at it. The consequence 
is that we discuss a great deal more than we 
read. 

This time he happened to read about Paul, 
207 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 

and I stopped him after a while to ask if he 
thought chronic blindness was Paul’s thorn in 
the flesh. It had not occurred to him, but, 
as we had quite an argument as to Paul’s 
eligibility in the Club, I was pretty well 
posted. I could not remember our particular 
proof text, but as he read on he came to it : 

“ For I bear you record that, if it had been 
possible ye — would — have — plucked — out 

— your — own — eyes — and — have — given 

— them — to — me.” 

“ There ! ” I said, “ what would he want of 
their eyes if he had a supply of his own? 
Why didn’t they offer him hands or feet — 
or tongues, if he only stuttered ? ” 

“ But he wrote his epistles ‘ with his own 
hand,’ ” he insisted. 

“ Yes,” I retorted, “ see what big letters I 
make when I do write with my own hand ! 
Blind people can sign their own names when 
they have had time for practice.” 

Evidently an amanuensis wrote for him 
usually. 

“ What did we decide ? ” I’m ashamed to 
say how he ended me. If I’d thought of it 
before I might have had an answer. He 
asked : 

“ Why did he boast that he could * lead 
208 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


about a wife’? If he had been blind she 
would have had to lead him.” 

I don’t know now how I came to do it. 
Don’t you know the little glow of nervous 
excitement that comes from a pass at words, 
especially when you admit your opponent’s 
skill? Well, just on the spur of the moment 
I told him about our blind Club — which I 
never in the world meant anyone should know 
but you — not even Amy. It’s a kind of 
Secret Society, you know. 

I was sorry the moment I had done it, and 
the little excitement of surprising and amus- 
ing him was past, but I was embarrassed to 
find myself saying “ Sh ” when we heard 
Helen coming. 

She would consider it the most absurd 
thing in the world and think I was whining 
and “ puling for my eyes ” like Ovid, if she 
knew how much my thoughts ran on the sub- 
ject — don’t you see. 


As soon as ever Amy comes I’m going to 
have her tell Mr. Kennedy about my misunder- 
standing. I do not know what she said when 
she wrote him — to come, you know. 


209 


XXXVII 


"VTES, Amy came and I almost forgot my 
troubles in her happiness. She told me 
all about the journey, and the arrival, and the 
stay, and the plans for return, and the people 
she watched, and the landscapes. It was only 
when she went the least little bit too much 
into detail, that I suspected her of trying to 
amuse me. 

There was not so much about “ Edward ” 
as one might have expected. By the way, 
he never begged me to call him Edward, 
and never calls me Oudene. I am glad Mr. 
Kennedy never insisted upon it, perhaps be- 
cause I did not remember. 

Helen called him “ Alfred ” the other day. 
She told me later that if he was going to 
settle down here — now that he’s really 
purchased the Appleton place — we might as 
well be neighbourly. She seems to have for- 
gotten it. 

While Helen and Amy were upstairs, I sat 
on the porch, and Mr. Kennedy and Mr. 
Nelson smoked on the lawn. 


210 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


It is strange how soon a man can forget 
that he is married. After a question or two, 
Mr. Nelson went into politics and then into 
his plans for church work. 

I was thinking of other things, and how 
I should find an opportune time to tell Amy 
what I wished, when I heard Mr. Kennedy 
say, very seriously: 

“ Yes, old man, it is time I came into the 
church and I’m going to do it. I got tangled 
up with those old heathen notions till I was 
blind as a bat.” 

There was an uneasy motion and a pause 
before Mr. Nelson said: 

“ It’s the only thing a man can do.” 

“ Yes,” was the reply, “ and it’s the man- 
liest thing a man can do.” 

“ I suppose you have read over the Church 
Symbols?” Mr. Nelson suggested. 

“ Yes, and the thirty-nine articles and the 
Athanasian creed.” 

“ You don’t have to accept them in toto,” 
Mr. Nelson laughed. 

“ But I do ! ” was the answer. “ I’m like 
Captain Bell’s very sensible wife who said 
she didn’t want a zvorm ! ” lowering his voice, 
“ I want a diet that will produce bone. It’s 
the whole creed or none — for me.” 


21 1 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 

“ Well, you are an old fogy ! ” Mr. Nelson 
exclaimed. 

“ Yes/’ he answered, “ but I got most of 
my old-fogyism out of heathen books. There 
is an old Mohametan book on the “ Being 
of God ” that did me an ocean of good. I 
shall stick to that as long as I do to my 
Bible.” 

“Who wrote it?” asked Mr. Nelson. 

“ A fellow named Fenelon,” he answered. 


Yes, I was sure she told Mr. Nelson, so 
sure that I begged him to tell Mr. Kennedy in 
some roundabout way — since Amy insisted 
she could not: 

“ Because I promised you I wouldn’t,” she 
laughed. 

He refused as stoutly as she, as if he had 
to obey her already — or were bound by her 
promises. 

“ But someone must,” I said to Amy. “ He 
thinks / sent for him — wanted him.” 

“ He is much happier thinking it,” she re- 
plied in the most exasperatingly indifferent 
way, as if she were watching a play. 

“ I wanted him for you,” I insisted. 

“ Edward didn’t,” she laughed. 

“ I’ll tell him myself, just how it was.” 

212 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


“ I thought you’d have done that already,” 
— with another laugh. 

“ What must he think of me ! ” I finally 
said in despair. 

“ He looks as if he were thinking some 
gloomy things about himself, Oudene. It’s 
not his fault, whose ever it is.” 

I don’t dare ask Helen to tell him. She 
would do it as if it were all a joke. Some 
things can’t be laughed off. Besides, she 
doesn’t know. 

She was here for supper last night, and I 
listened to the chatter. She chattered and the 
others conversed. 

You remember Ruskin says there are twelve 
who can talk, to one that can think, and a 
hundred who can think to one who can see. 

I have been comparing my friends and sort- 
ing out those who can think, and those who 
can see — those to whom the internal visions 
are the substance of things conceived. 

With what energy Homer must have 
thought to make us see his creatures — the 
things he created! And with what infinite 
energy must God have thought, to bring into 
existence the beings he had conceived and 
said, “ Let us make.” I wonder if the differ- 
ence is only a question of degree. Think of 
213 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


the barren surroundings of writers who have 
conjured up the most wonderful scenes. 

“ The imagination seems to see better, 1 ” 
said Amy, “ when the physical eye is not 
fatigued.” 

“ Yes,” Mr. Nelson added, “ the imagina- 
tion can’t get the brain when the line is 
in use.” 

Mr. Kennedy really has wonderful insight. 
He thinks of all sorts of things that had not 
entered into my philosophy. 

He comes every day since Amy returned, 
though I certainly need entertainment less. 
He spends more time with her than with me, 
and misses her as much as I do when she has 
to be away. 


214 


XXXVIII 


ES, I know, my dear. We are neglect- 



A ing my autobiography, and I’m not 
seven years old yet ! How long do you think 
by rule of three, it will take us to finish? I 
mean to spin it out until I am able to include 
my own death and burial, like Moses. 

What was that Amy read this morning? 
She has taken to giving me a few minutes 
French every day. She pronounces beauti- 
fully; I could understand it better if she pro- 
nounced it as I do myself. 

It was about man, “ blind and curious, 
rathering to fear than to be ignorant.” 

I have to translate to myself as she goes 
along, so I can not pick my words and keep 
up. The “ blind and curious ” struck me as 
an unfortunate combination, which would 
tend to impatience and sundry other unlove- 
able qualities. And then that we should 
rather fear — worry, suffer in any way — 
than to be ignorant ! It sounds Eve-like and 
feminine. 


215 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


Helen came in then, and Mr. Kennedy, 
and we launched off on a go-as-you-please 
theological debate. * 

I won’t bore you with it, or you will 
threaten to take an earlier boat even than you 
plan. How I shall miss you ! 

When they struck fatalism and free-will I 
protested : 

“ Sam Lawton and I had that threshed out 
long ago. The subject is taboo in peaceful 
social circles.” 

So it was obediently dropped. I confided 
to Mr. Kennedy later that half my happiness 
comes from believing nice little things which 
happen to me are fore-ordained. 

“What about the dreadful things?” he 
asked. 

“ I could not bear them at all if I did not 
know that they were planned for me by some- 
one who loved me and knew best,” I replied. 
It seems he has exactly the same feeling about 
it. It is fortunate we like it, for we could 
not make it different if we would, and, he 
quoted, as he said good-night, “ Life ain’t in 
holdin’ a good hand, but playin’ a poor hand 
well.” 


216 


XXXIX 


UTF you keep thinking of one and the 

A same thing long enough you will be off 
to sleep at night and not lie awake.” That 
is what one can truly call wisdom ! 

If you think of different things and your 
mind buzzes like a blue-bottle fly in the upper 
corner of a window pane, you may not fall 
asleep directly ; if it hops about from one 
subject to another like a kangaroo or even a 
jirboa, then you “ should not let it,” and 
when it goes like a popper full of corn, you 
lie awake, and “ it serves you right.” 

That is the way one’s friends explain how 
one “ may go directly to sleep ” — which I did 
not last night. 

When I finally fell to thinking of colours 
and settled down to it, I fell asleep. I love 
colour so that it seems all my own. If God 
had handed the spectrum down to me, as he 
is handing the rainbow to Noah from a win- 
dow in Heaven in the church in Monte Reale, 
Noah reaching up to take hold of the other 
217 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


end of it, it would not seem any more my 
very own. There was my sunset last night. 
It was far more permanent than any sun- 
set you may have seen, for I returned to it 
again and again and merged in it all the spires 
and pinnacles, the pagodas and minarets I 
have ever seen, and coloured them like the 
New Jerusalem. 


You come at such long intervals now I am 
losing all count of what I have told you or 
where I meant to begin. You have been 
very, very kind to come so much and to come 
at all now you are so busy. I can never tell 
you or show you in any way how you have 
helped me. I never feel as if I were telling 
things when I tell you, dear. Some people 
give us such a blissful feeling of fidelity that 
we become irresponsible. 

Yes, Amy is gone for a whole day. 

Mr. Nelson sat with me a while and came 
out to lunch with me, which I’ve never asked 
anyone to do before. I even poured his tea 
— promising not to put my finger in to feel 
when the cup was full, as old Mrs. Williams 
did when she poured for Dr. Johnson, though 
the Doctor probably could not see her, and 
would not have minded if he had. 

218 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT. 


Mr. Nelson’s regard for Mr. Kennedy is 
almost idolatrous. He talks about his virtues 
as if he were brooding over one and then an- 
other of the facets of an emerald. There 
comes a tremour in his voice so deep that 
one marvels that he should so torture him- 
self ! 

For my part I do not admire Mr. Kennedy 
so much as I admire Mr. Nelson’s Damon- 
and-Jonathan devotion. I told Amy I 
thought, “ Edward ” overrated his Pythias 
absurdly. I never heard her express such 
extravagant admiration for any of her re- 
jected suitors — though I’m not sure about 
that — as she did for Mr. Kennedy then, but 
it was in rebuttal, and she was over-loyal to 
her husband, who has not quite settled into 
his normal status. 


219 


XL 



ES, Mr. Kennedy was confirmed yester- 


day. Amy and Mr. Nelson were so 
happy; Mrs. Wallace, too, the poor creature 
I forgot to tell you about. She does not 
really deserve the Mrs. and is going to drop 
it. Her name went on the record as Mary 
Anne Wallace. 

“ She is surely one of the ‘ blessed poor in 
spirit ’ and perhaps sees more than I,” Mr. 
Kennedy said. 

The night before the Vestry met I heard 
bits of another Good-night talk as Mr. Nelson 
and he paced the walk, thinking I could not 
hear. I could not, except as they approached 
at intervals. At one turn I caught the ques- 
tion: 

“ Sakya Muni rather ‘ fussed your mind,* 
didn’t he ? ” quoting from dear little Edith, 
who amuses us so. 

“ N-o,” was the long drawn answer, 
“ Buddha was a great man, remarkably en- 
lightened as his name implies. I’ll take off 


220 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


my hat to him any time, and my shoes to 
Mohamet, but I bend my knee to — An- 
other.” 

At the next turn : 

“ We need your kind of fellows,” Mr. Nel- 
son said, with a more familiar tone than 
usual. He seems never quite to forget the 
difference in age. 

“ That’s not exactly my — point of view, 
as Mrs. De Lon would say — ” he lowered 
his voice, and I got a whiff from an India 
cigar. “ It’s a question about us, whether 
we shall feel much like heroes after the fight 
if we just stand and look on.” 

“ Then — there’s the pension,” he ended, 
with a deprecatory laugh. 


Helen has received a handful of letters from 
old Captain Eastman since I saw you, my 
dear. He complains, in one bit she read us, 
of the “ long, long days.” How can anyone 
do that ! 

When Helen was embroidering the other 
day her silk knotted and she was actually an- 
noyed to the point of exclamation. I told her 
my beans never got into snarls and what do 
you think! She burst into tears and had to 
be comforted. She really is nervous of late 
221 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


and worries us — with the captain so far 
away. 

Mr. Kennedy came in, fortunately, and we 
begged for some India. 

“ What shall I tell you about ? ” he asked. 

“ Anything,” Helen laughed, “but the Taj 
Mahal and Towers of Silence.” 

“ I’m not likely to describe the Taj,” he 
said, “ and I was never in the Towers of 
Silence.” 

I think Helen rather upset me, for when 
Amy came in and asked what the Japanese 
meant by calling their new era Meijie, and 
she could not quite understand the force of 
their “ Enlightenment,” I told her that “ En- 
lighten ” was the opposite of “ De-lighten.” 

I thought of that pun weeks ago and made 
up my mind I would not let anyone, ever, 
hear me use it. A dozen times I have bitten 
my tongue to hold it back, for I knew it 
would hurt them — and now I have said it! 
Amy’s question was an unforeseen temptation 
and out it came, as baby adders come out of 
their mothers’' mouths when the danger is 
past. How cross lam! 

I wish you had not come to-day at all 


222 


XLI 


O H, my dear, can you ever, ever, forgive 
me? I have meant every day to beg 
Helen or Amy to come to you and tell you I 
was so sorry! But how could I tell them 
what I had said to you ? — or make them un- 
derstand without ? 

I have needed you very much too, dear, 
for I have a new little worry that I have 
hugged under my blouse till it has gnawed 
me like the Spartan fox. 

Have you heard any hint as to when the 
Captain is coming — or when Helen is to 
join him? 

Yes, I do think she needs him. Any wife 
needs her husband, and she is so — what 
shall I say? An English friend wrote me 
once after a sea-voyage that she hated the 
water lately because she could not abide “ your 
frisky American matrons,” she put it. I 
never for one moment entertained the least 
doubt of Helen’s — 

No, good taste, I was going to say. 

223 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


I don’t wonder you are surprised and I am 
relieved that you are — very much relieved. 

Yes, I’ll tell you all about it — and shame 
to me ! 

It is another of those intermittent, terminal 
conversations I have overheard. Mr. Nelson 
can’t do anything about it for he is practically 
as helplessly stultified as a priest who hears 
confession. He can’t betray such a confidence 
and the least attempt to help would be be- 
trayal. 

You must help me to help, or Amy must 
help us both. And mind, dear, it never en- 
tered into the “ thought of the imagination of 
my heart ” to suspect even an understanding 
look between them ; but a conscious attraction 
is a calamity for them both. 

Yes, I won’t keep you in suspense. As 
they approached Mr. Kennedy was saying — 

“ Mrs. Sutton has been the best friend I 
ever had. She wrote me every two or three 
years and I lived on those letters between 
times. No one knew, of course.” 

As they came back he was saying: 

“ She promised that if ever the time came 
when I could be of use to her — or even could 
be near her, in a friendly way, she would 
let me know.” 


224 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


“Did she?” Mr. Nelson asked, and the 
next words were: 

“ We had no code but when she cabled 
* At last ’ I understood.” 

Again, as they came up Mr. Nelson was 
asking : 

“ When was that ? ” 

“ Two years ago next Tuesday at eight 
a. m. Calcutta time I received it.” There 
was a laugh as he said it so exactly, that 
grated as no word or laugh of his ever did 
before. It did not seem as if he could be 
our Mr. Kennedy — the Mr. Kennedy I 
thought I knew — don’t you see. 

The next round they were both silent, then : 

“Did you start at once?” Mr. Nelson 
asked as a sort of a test. 

“ How could I, man ! ” he groaned. “ The 
Indian sun had got in its work — I was in 
the hospital.” 

“What did you do?” 

“ Got the nurse to write for me and ex- 
plain that I had waited twenty years for the 
chance and — wished I were dead.” 

I was not exactly sure of that last word. 

“What next?” Mr. Nelson asked. 

“ Mrs. Sutton got the letter.” He paused 
for Mr. Nelson’s: 


225 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


“ And—?” 

“ She cabled — ‘ Come.’ ” 

“ Good deal of responsibility for her to 
take—” 

As they came back Mr. Kennedy was say- 
ing — I don’t know of whom — “ she’s a six 
sided brick, clean edged — ” 

“You’re glad you came?” was the next 
question. 

“ Man ! I’m in heaven. Never was or ex- 
pected to be so happy — just to be where I 
can talk to her — ” 

That was all. 

What did I think? Several things. First, 
what if I had been a fool? Fortunately, 
there was no danger of that. Secondly, 
what if I had married him to Amy as I in- 
tended. 

Thirdly? Well, thirdly, that I had such 
absolute faith in his honour, that it need not 
spoil our pleasant talks. I don’t know that 
one need grudge a dog a bone like that, if he is 
a gentleman or even a man. I did wish Helen 
were a bit quieter and more matronly. 


You must go? And no memories yet! I 
do not think so much of the past as I did — 
and you are going so soon that I should not 
226 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


have time to finish. The thoughts of the old 
days will surge over me sometimes and I 
shall want you more than I can tell. Just 
now they seem eclipsed. 

Good-night. 


227 


XLII 


Y ES, they said to-day would be Sunday 
and I presume they knew. I couldn’t 
help it. 

I had to send for you, you were so long in 
coming and I had been so unjust. 

My eyes have been holden, but I have not 
been intentionally blind. 

They say there are fish that can see in salt 
but not in fresh water, because the latter con- 
tains no N-rays. Sometimes it seems to me 
there is some fault in the atmosphere which 
prevents my seeing, some rays are tempo- 
rarily extracted from it and they call it blind- 
ness in me. 

It may be no more my fault than it was 
Aeneus’ when Venus wrapped him in clouds 
and made him invisible, only now she has not 
wrapped me but all the rest of you. 

I am not a squid, that I should wantonly 
envelope myself in opaque blackness, and 
yet at times I almost seem to have done so. 
The second night after you came last, we 
228 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


all talked an hour or so, then Amy and Mr. 
Nelson walked away to take Mr. Kennedy 
home, they said. 

Helen sat by me, and seemed preoccupied 
until I despaired of entertaining her. We 
had been silent so long we heard them coming 
back, when suddenly she kneeled by me with 
her head on my shoulder and said : 

“ Oh, Oudene, he loves you so ! ” 

I fairly felt my heart stop ! 

“Loves me? ” I asked. 

“ Yes, all his life long ! ” 

It seemed so impossible after a moment 
that I shook myself free and saw how absurd 
it was. She has not referred to it again, 
nor I, of course. But I see now how unjust 
I have been to her. Nothing could make me 
doubt that she believed what she had said to 
me. I cannot beg her pardon and I cannot 
take back what I said. You and God will 
forgive me. 

I have been thinking backward and I am 
ashamed of the little brusquenesses to Mr. 
Kennedy which I have allowed myself when- 
ever I happened to remember that I had 
seemed to send for him. 

I was relieved to find out long after that he 
did not come home at all on account of Amy’s 
229 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


letter. It seems his business in Paris was 
finished and he had gone to Cook’s office to 
engage passage when he found her letter. 
He wanted to get over before the fogs were 
too heavy. 

I spoke about it accidentally to-day and her 
answer was a bit significant: 

“ I’m glad,” she said, “ that I worded my 
letter just as I did. If Mr. Kennedy had 
known that you expected him to come and 
marry me, and were so happy about it, he 
would have been very happy — to disap- 
point you.” 


I overheard him talking to Abram on the 
lawn to-night, asking why he had no wife : 

“ Weel,” Abram began, as if he had the 
day before him, “ ye see, my sister — she’s 
older than me — she got married and when 
she had three little ’uns, her man he went off 
and left her set.” 

After a slash or two with his sickle : 

“ I had to look after the four of them, 
and I didn’t know, sir, if I’d want to stay by, 
if / got married.” 

“ You were wise then that you tried no ex- 
periments,” Mr. Kennedy went on. “ You 
look a happy man as you are.” 

230 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


“ That I’m not, sir, that I’m not,” was the 
cheerful answer. 

Mr. Kennedy told me about it later and 
was sorry for poor old Abram. Pity was so 
absurdly wasted on him that I remonstrated. 

“ Cupid has not done right by Abram,” he 
insisted, “ everyone has a right to demand 
one arrow.” 


How foolish I was to remember L’Homme 
Qui Rit and to ask Amy and Helen to read to 
me. I had half remembered the blind baby, 
dragged naked from her frozen mother’s 
breast, and carried by Gwynplaine to light and 
warmth and food and love — who grew up 
to be “ a sweet light-bearer.” 

One sentence, after the book was shut, 
made me forget Dea and Ursus and Homo, 
the dog, thinking only: 

“ God is the arm, Chance the sling, Man 
the pebble. How are you to resist, once 
flung?” 

“Once flung!” I did not believe Chance 
was the sling but I knew that I had been 
flung — far into space; that I was whirling, 
falling in response to some divine law of 
gravitation. That there was just some 
subtle, slight, chemical change in life — mi- 
231 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


nute, inevitable, irrevocable; as if the oxygen 
and nitrogen of the air should slip a cog and 
unite to form a compound ; as little a thing as 
that! 

I do not know why I try to put this into 
words. It was not a thought, not a feeling, 
only a what-if — but it was the invisible life 
in the embryo while the bud is still unformed. 
Such a what-if, conscious or unconscious, 
might be a woman’s Rubicon. 

As Mr. Kennedy went out of the gate yes- 
terday — no, the day before — he let in Mary 
Anne Wallace, coming to see Amy about her 
sick boy. His courteous salutation — why 
should it have caught my attention and held 
it so? — made me compare him with other 
men. 

I am foolish to wonder when I left the sling, 
but I verily believe it was when I heard the 
courtesy of that greeting and contrasted in- 
voluntarily his life and hers. 

I was not watching even with my mind — 
which might have kept me blind. It was one 
of the off-glances that reveal what is not in 
sight. 

I was long awake after my ceremonious 
retirement, which Axny will attend and over- 
232 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


see. When I slept at last, a great Goblin 
came and said “ Jack was the Sling.” 

I awoke, the most miserable of creatures, 
breakfasted in bed and pretended to sleep on 
and on. 

At noon I said I would dress, but when I 
attempted it I found I was really ill, which I 
had not suspected. 

Dr. Barton happened to call to see Mr. 
Nelson at night and they brought him up to 
tell me how Helen had sprained her ankle. 

I spent the evening quite alone except 
when Amy ran up once or twice contrary to 
my commands. Listening to the voices be- 
low, which seemed suppressed and serious, 
the world seemed to me a happy place, as 
peaceful as Heaven could be. 

I never was a pebble and God had never 
flung me. 

Jack was as near — and as far as ever. 
The everlasting arm was not flinging me into 
space and away from Him, but was under- 
neath, an everlasting support. If I could 
see, I should wish only for quiet and to shut 
my eyes and think. 


233 


XLIII 


I HAVE been travelling all day. You re- 
member Thoreau “ travelled a great jour- 
ney in Concord ” ? I have travelled as far in 
my good chair. Sometimes my chair is a 
canoe; then I exchange it for an air-ship; 
when I am over-restless it is an Empire-Ex- 
press. 

I buy tickets to imaginary lands — Hesperia 
for instance — which are dated and stamped 
“ Cimmeria/’ I have set out repeatedly for 
Altruria and paid big money for a ticket, but 
ships don’t run on schedule time — or else 
I miss them. 

“ Do you think they need you there ? ” Mr. 
Kennedy asks, adding “ It seems to me that 
we Cimmerians need you more.” 

We talked on, and before I knew it I was 
telling him one of my worries. It has fol- 
lowed me from childhood and if I were not 
a Christian, I mean a believer in the Bible, it 
would really make me unhappy. 

It is, or would be, that after this life I 
234 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


might be petrified in a certain state of mind 
or feeling — whatever it happened to be in 
articulo mortis . As if I should be “ left set ” 
just as I happened to be caught and stay so 
forever. That I should not have any con- 
secutive memory, but one memory, a com- 
posite of all the separate memories of my 
life — their algebraic sum. Think of having 
no body, no mind ; of being only a feeling, the 
legitimate resultant of this composite memory ! 

I never put it into words before and I did 
not then, have not now, but he understood. 

I used to think of it as a little child. When 
I went to sleep at night I tried often to com- 
pose for myself a frame of mind which I 
should enjoy occupying forever and ever. I 
succeeded now and then quite to my own 
satisfaction and awoke hoping that I might be 
able to resume it when the proper time should 
come. 

“ Old people keep their shrouds folded 
away, and foreign statesmen carry their cof- 
fins when they travel abroad with the same 
thrifty fore-sight, and, I hope, with fewer 
misgivings/* Mr. Kennedy added as his con- 
tribution. 

“ And haloes are supposed to be kept in 
stock,” I laughed. 


235 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


Amy is going to find that verse about our 
being prone to sin as the sparks fly upward. 

It seems a strange simile, for sin seems 
headed downward in Christian nomenclature. 
The Persians say that water runs downward 
to find the Lord of Earth, and that flame 
ascends to find the Lord of Heaven. Both 
“ speed them to their source.” 

“ Light seems always struggling to escape, 
and loth to return,” I said to Mr. Kennedy 
to-day. 

“ Naturally,” he replied, “ for light is tem- 
porary, incidental, the mere vibration of the 
normal and permanent element.” 

“ But,” I urged, “ light will be permanent. 
There shall be no Night there.” 

“ No,” he assented, and then, “ Because 
there will be no sun to set. One could not be 
blind who had no eyes ! ” 

I think he loves the night as much as I. 
He never tires of telling me about the stars 
and clouds. 

"Will there be no sunsets there ? ” I asked, 
and got no answer. 

“ Sometimes I feel,” I went on, “ as if some 
antipodal Joshua had halted the sun in his 
private Ajalon, utterly careless of me and 
my need.” 


236 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


“ In other regions,” he quoted, and I recog- 
nised his precious Novalis, “ In other regions 
light has pitched its joyous tents. What if 
it should never return to its children who 
wait for it in the faith of innocence?” 

“ We should be safe folded,” I said, after 
a pause, “ in the ‘ blanket of the Dark/ ” 

“ 4 Dost thou take pleasure in us, dusky 
Night?’” he added, and when I begged him 
to go on — thinking it was a bit he had been 
saving for me — 

“ What holdest thou under thy mantle — 
Precious balm drops from thy hand out of its 
bundle of poppies. Thou up-liftest the heavy 
laden pinions of the soul — How poor and 
childish a thing seems now to me the Light.” 

As if to leave me without marring the 
thought, he went with only a muttered “ Good- 
night.” 

An hour later he was pacing the walk with 
Mr. Nelson and — I did not try not to hear, 
being sure he would not mind my hearing! 
Still, I did not listen. 

“ Where were you,” asked Mr. Nelson, 
“ and what were you doing when Oudene 
and Jack were in India? They wrote you 
they were coming? ” 

“ Yes,” was the reply, “ and I ran like a 
237 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


coward, though, by George-and-the-curly- 
tailed dragon, I had to screw up my courage 
to do it.” 

Mr. Nelson whistled softly. As they re- 
turned : 

“ Ran to Peshawar, then sneaked back to 
Amritzar; stalked them to Ajmir and 
Jaipur — ” 

“ Catch them ? ” 

“ No, they sailed the day before I got to 
Bombay. I would have tossed two lacs into 
the Arabian Sea to have turned that ship’s 
head round.” 

I called as they came back. 

“ Edward!” 

“ Yes, Oudene,” he answered. 

“ You are walking too long. Come and sit 
with me.” I was willing they should see how 
easily I could hear. 

" Yes, after two turns more, our cigars are 
almost out,” to which I assented, perforce. 

“ When did you first learn — about 
Oudene?” Mr. Nelson was asking next. 

“ Met Helen in Trieste.” After a pause : 

“ It must have been a great shock — ” No 
answer, and he went on : 

“ Were you — could you be sorry? ” 

“ Yes, man ! ” was the emphatic answer. 

238 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


“ Til do myself that justice. Fd have stayed 
in India to spare her.” 

“ And never let her know ? ” 

“ Never let her know.” 


No one but Helen knows that I know, and 
she does not know how much I know, or how 
well I know it. 

After the first surprise, I am very happy. 
There is none of the tumult and agony of 
doubt that comes with wooing — if only for 
one’s own unworthiness. 

I am not asked to give — or even to accept. 
I have only to live on — dreaming my dreams 
and seeing my visions, with another to share 
and enrich them. 

Amy says he has his house quite in order 
and that his queer Indian servant is in charge 
— a Christian. 

Do you go next week to New York? and 
sail on Saturday. And will you come to me 
every day till then? I don’t know that I 
need you more, but I want you. 


^39 


XLIV 


44\X7HAT have you been doing all the 
* * morning ? ” I asked mockingly this 
noon when Mr. Kennedy came down to speak 
to Abram, and asked if I had been unsnarling 
all the morning? 

“ I ? I’ve been turning my prayer wheel,” 
he laughed. 

Has he shown it to you? I saw them in 
'Darjeeling but would not try one, unsterilised. 
I have been so sorry I hadn’t one and never 
remembered that he might have brought some 
home. 

“ Oh,” I begged, “ haven’t you two of 
them?” 

“ A dozen — or less ” was the answer. 
“ You shall have your choice — or all — but 
one. I cannot part with the very last. It 
is an aid to my devotions.” 

“ 4 Devotion ’ has no plural,” I corrected. 

“ Yes it has — a duel,” he insisted. 

Sometimes I half suspect that he suspects 
that I suspect — I’m getting as rattle headed 
as Helen! 


240 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


“ I’ll send Thomas for them directly,” he 
promised. 

“Can you translate the prayer for me?” 
I asked. 

“ No,” he answered, “ but Thomas will.” 

“ I had better not use it until I know what 
it means,” said I. “ And what god will be 
supposed to hear it?” 

“ The only God,” he answered, in a tone that 
surprised and almost rebuked me. 

I chose a wheel with a worn handle which 
shows it has been long and well used, and a 
cover that shuts on tight to the end of the 
cylinder which contains the prayer, so it will 
not fly off and leave me twirling the handle, 
with its stiff wire, while cover and prayer and 
cylinder roll in three directions. 


Yes, the Bishop came yesterday — that was 
Wednesday? — He will have the service Sun- 
day and has some project to talk over with 
Mr. Nelson. 

What was I doing yesterday ? Thinking 
about the Englishman who had the happy 
faculty I lack. “ I comes to church o’ Sun- 
days,” he said, “ and sets me down, and lays 
me legs up, and thinks o’ nothing.” 

I would give my two eyes for his ability to 
241 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


think o’ nothing, even now. My mill, like 
that of Samson, blind in Gaza, must have 
grist, and when that fails I must pour in the 
flour and grind it over — which clogs the mill. 

We had a gay evening, though. My little 
tray was brought out to me, but I could hear 
all the table-talk and turn my prayer-wheel 

— and receive calls from my Club-mates be- 
tween courses. 

I heard Helen expounding Ruskin’s theory 
that we destroy our sight in childhood, or 
dissipate it by straining our inward vision to 
see fairies and brownies, if not hob-goblins 
and spooks. 

“ If we attended properly to out-side eyes ” 

— I knew she was coming to grief — “ and let 
the * unseen things ’ remain unseen we should 
be more likely — ” hesitating — “ to see the 
things we see ! ” she ended triumphantly. 

They all laughed, and maybe I only im- 
agined a “ Sh — Oudene ” behind her. 

When they had led Mr. Kennedy on to talk 
of his “exile” as he called it and his long- 
ing for home, the subject of homesickness, 
being up, Amy quoted : 

“ All sorrow should be homesickness.” 

After a pause, Mr. Kennedy spoke: 

242 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


“ You know,” he said, “ that hares could 
not live in Ithaca, and that those taken over to 
stock the island were all found dead on the 
shore toward Greece?” 

We did not say we did not know it, and he 
added : 

“ The western coast of India is lined with 
English graves.” 


“ Brides ought to drink of the Fountain 
of Youth,” said the Bishop. I wondered if he 
found Amy changed. 

“ Can you direct me to it ? ” she asked. 

“ That is an awkward question,” he an- 
swered laughing. 

“ I can direct you,” Mr. Kennedy volun- 
teered. 

“ You look well preserved,” remarked Mr. 
Nelson. 

“ Yes,” he said stoutly, “ I’ve been to 
Mimir’s Spring, which is the true fountain 
of youth.” 

“ Did you drink? ” asked Amy. 

“ No, I did not drink,” he answered seri- 
ously. 

“ Why not ? ” they asked in chorus. 

“ Well,” he hesitated, “ they demanded of 
243 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 

nie as of Alfadir before me that I leave them 
a pledge.” 

“ Of what ? ” asked the Bishop. 

“ My left eye.” 


244 


XLV 


TV/r R. NELSON spoke recently of poor 
**“*“■• Dr. Worcester, who became blind after 
he had finished his dictionary. I asked if 
Dr. Johnson’s impaired sight was ever at- 
tributed to his labours on his dictionary. I 
never made a dictionary, but sometimes I 
think I may have injured my sight with my 
foolish ignorant searching of them. 

Mr. Kennedy and I had been talking about 
creeds. 

Someone had come across the child’s defini- 
tion of faith — “ that it is believing what isn’t 
true.” 

I jumped to the conclusion that she would 
define doubt, when she was old enough to 
know what it meant, as “ not believing what 
is true.” 

“ Faith is knitting,” suggested Amy, “ and 
doubt is ravelling out. One prefers to knit.” 

I get confused — “ fussed in my mind ” — 
We are so grateful to little Edith for the 
right word! 


245 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


I must quote Bossuet to Faith the next time 
I see her : “ Une insensee confiance, s’est jet- 
ter dans I’aveuglement.” 

Faith can’t quite see why virtues should be 
blind, and just for foolishness I asked if she 
was still convinced that faith was a virtue. 
She said: 

There is one strange phenomenon — I’m 
glad I have forgotten the derivation of that 
word — namely, that : “ Blind unbelief is 

sure to err,” though the italics are mine, 
while blind faith often leads one along safely. 

Yes, of course one may have too much 
faith. All human faith is out of plumb — 
and any leaning tower may be too tall. One 
good thing — if it falls, the material is all there 
and one may rebuild at once. I know people 
who rebuild periodically and the faster they 
build the more the tower leans, and the sooner 
they may shift and try again — as Kim, when 
he wants to crack a hard bone, has to try 
every spot in the yard before he succeeds. 

Sometimes a little clique of people builds 
its various towers about a common point to- 
ward whose centre they all lean. Exhorta- 
tion, mutually exchanged, helps them to build 
at the same rate, so that when they fall they 
support each other and form a shrine or 
246 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


stable for their hobby, which thrives and fat- 
tens — waxes fat and kicks, disastrously at 
times. 


Yes, dear, I'm resigned, but you really are 
not called upon to admire the degree or quality 
of my resignation. 

Some are born resigned, some acquire 
resignation and some have resignation thrust 
upon them. I belong to the third class, and 
am trying to add to my resignation that 
“ jollity of the mind ” that old Dr. Hobbes 
recommends and no doubt attained — if we 
may judge from his well-known frivolity. 

Perhaps I need to be weaned from the 
world — to whose dugs I clung more fret- 
fully than I knew. Blindness is only the drop 
of bitter on the nipple which makes one roll 
the head away with a sob. 


247 


XLVI 


M R. KENNEDY’S patience is his most 
wonderful gift. He could not have 
cultivated it. When I get hold of an idea I 
like to follow, follow, foolishly on. And he 
never seems to tire. 

A text of Scripture, any scripture, is like 
a nest of East India boxes, or straw card- 
cases. Every time one reads it — no, not 
every time, but from time to time as one re- 
reads it another wrapping comes off, and one 
gets nearer to the inner kernel which eternity 
may reveal to us in the nude. 

What was I saying? You see, thinking, 
professional thinking — to which I am re- 
duced these days — in the abstract, hit-or- 
miss way, which only can be called scientific, 
is much like fishing. 

One finds a line tethered to any trifle which 
serves as text. If he strides over it and walks 
on it is all the same ; he has lost nothing, ex- 
cept in a negative way, what he might have 
had. One grieves much if one loses a dollar ; 
not at all, if he only steps over the roll of 
248 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


bills his neighbour behind picks up. He has 
not lost it. 

He may pick up the line and, feeling no bite, 
lay it down again. 

He may feel the least motion at the other 
end and begin eagerly to reel in, not always 
to catch the fish. The line may break, there 
may be only a snag at the end of it, but if 
he is true fisherman and thinker he expects a 
fish — a nugget of truth. Perhaps it is one 
that “ comes over us ” as we say, and makes 
us instantly conscious that henceforth, for- 
ever, we are quite new creatures. 

It is a queer feeling, this sudden looking 
back at what one was a moment before — 
perhaps with regret, but often with a deep 
drawn “ Thank God.” 

Mr. Kennedy seems to have time to sit here 
in the shade with me and help reel in — never 
jerking on purpose to break the line as some 
would do — and small blame to them ! 

What was it to-day? 

We fell to talking of how hard God seems 
to have tried — Fenelon would not wish me 
to speak of him so — but humanly speaking 
— and humanly seeing — he seems to have 
tried to divide his greatest gifts among men 
so as to satisfy them all. 

249 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


“ What do you call his greatest gifts ? ” he 
asked. 

“ Why,” said I, “ time and brains and hap- 
piness and beauty — ” 

“ And health and money ? ” he asked. 

“ And influence,” I added. “ Are there 
any others that rank with these seven ? ” 

“ How did he divide the time?” he asked, 
a bit curious. 

I told him that he seemed to have divided 
the time evenly so far as we could see. One 
man’s day and week and year ; his night and 
day and twilight, Sabbath and week-time are 
exactly as long as any of his neighbours’, and 
they all know that it is so. 

“Well,” he laughed, “who complains?” 

“ Everyone,” I answered, “ some find the 
days long and tiresome, some fret because 
they are too short ; some think the years creep, 
some say they fly. We all find fault.” 

“ I admit,” he laughed, “ that you have 
made your point. Now, how about the 
brains? ” 

“ I don’t know,” I answered, “ sometimes 
I wonder if he did not draw cuts himself after 
he had divided the whole lot into big and little 
piles, to see who should have which. There 
seems to have been no plan at all, some get 
250 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 

more, many get less, and yet it seems to have 
been the most satisfactory distribution of the 
seven, for he managed so cleverly that every 
man thinks he has the lion’s share. No one 
seems to covet his neighbours brains. His 
own are so evidently superior that he does 
not consider it good taste to mention it.” 

“ Take beauty next,” he begged. “ Do you 
mean personal beauty ? ” 

I told him “no” emphatically. That is 
not one of the first seven, it may attain unto 
the second. 

It is the beauty of outward nature, of water 
and forest, mountain and motion, of lovely 
women and children and manhood and virtue 
and holiness. It is poured out all about us 
and each man and woman not only may but 
must take all that he can carry and stow 
away. 

Everyone has all he wants of it — else he 
would take more, only — why should we load 
ourselves down with it when there are so 
many things we desire so much more ? There 
is no rivalry of possession when our having 
makes none poorer ; where is the zest then in 
obtaining? 

“ Influence, next?” he asked. 

“ You tell how that is portioned oiit,” I 

251 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


said. “ Eve thought but am not satisfied that 
I know.” 

“ First,” he answered, “ we assume that it 
is a blessing, even if it be bad? ” 

“ Yes,” I said, “ it is power. All power is 
good.” 

“ I think,” he said slowly, “ a man has to 
earn it, right honestly.” 

“ Except that he inherits ? ” I suggested. 

“ Yes,” he admitted, “ influence may be in- 
herited, but inherited influence is so easily and 
early lost. Unless one countersigns, vises 
it with his own hand, it is null and void. 
Like inherited money it is easy to lose, and to 
keep.” 

“ Now we have come to health. I suppose 
you will say we have to earn that too,” he 
laughed. 

“We shall find this more complicated, I 
fear,” was my reply. “ We inherit some, all 
perhaps. As to the keeping, we are coworkers 
with God. Usually we have more than we de- 
serve, for we all know we do not deserve 
much. Sometimes God takes it away — ap- 
parently just to see what we shall say. He 
did that to Job. Now you explain about the 
wealth, for I want to give my own pet theory 
of happiness.” 


252 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


“ It was not wealth — it was money we 
were to call it,” he said, correcting me prop* 
erly. 

“ He just threw the money, riches, down 
to see us scramble for it! He watches us at 
it and marks the Deportment on our Grade- 
card accordingly.” 

“ If a man scrambles too hard for this one 
blessing — ” I had not ended when he went 
on — a rare thing in him. He usually pays 
his friends the compliment to listen through 
and even to let them finish the final words of 
their sentences. 

“ — he loses the other six, of course. That 
is his own lookout. We throw out what is 
less valuable when we have an opportunity to 
fill our pockets with what we desire more, of 
course. It is the wise thing to do.” 

“ Everyone gets all he wants ? ” I asked 
dubiously, “as of beauty?” 

“ No one gets as much as he wants,” he 
answered, “ that is where the fairness comes 
in. The amount that every scrambler fails 
to get is practically the same.” 

“ Now, I’ll explain the happiness,” I said, 
and paused. 

“ Well?” 

“ It is so ridiculous ! ” I apologised. 

^53 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


“ You keep me in cruel suspense,” he pro- 
tested and I went on with my nonsense : 

“ In one way it is just the opposite of the 
brains. No one thinks he has the most, for 
any length of time. Most people think they 
have only a fraction of what they need and 
deserve. 

“ I believe it is divided, distributed rather, 
exactly like time, only no one suspects it. 
Everyone has precisely the same.” I went 
on unmoved by his exclamation. 

“ I knew you would be surprised. I do not 
mean that each one has the same amount of 
happiness quite, but that the algebraic sum of 
his joys and sorrows would be precisely the 
same as any others — zero perhaps. 

“ I am not prepared to say that we do not 
have any happiness, either. We have no scale 
to weigh our joys in or our sorrows — but 
God has. For instance, I have had most in- 
tense and abounding and unbounded joy — 
and I have suffered intensely too. If God 
would eliminate for me the equal quantities, 
what would be left ? — zero ? Abram has had 
his happiness and suffering; if those were 
balanced might not the result be zero? Mary 
Anne Wallace has had her stolid pleasure and 
sorrow — do they balance ? ” 

254 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


I was ashamed to have kept him so long 
studying on one of my pet hobbies, but he 
never gave me one hint that he was weary of 
it — nor have you ! 


It is strange that I seem to be outgrowing 
the feeling that I must be forever a burden, 
and half believing that but for me another 
life would be darker. 

It is dreadful to put it into words but we 
submit to be crowned sometimes with a glory 
we know is quite subjective, not in our minds 
but in some others. Love endows us with 
all the virtues we desire to have only because 
it discerns in us the power to wish for them. 

We do not talk of ft. We have ten thou- 
sand other things to read and speak about. 
The world is full of beauties which have all 
to be translated into language. 

Sometimes no English word will express 
a thought, and a Hindu or Arabic or Persian 
word must do duty and then be translated at 
great length — perhaps by means of a long 
eastern story into whose web can be woven 
the idea so deftly that it may be descried 
only by an off-glance of the mind. The more 
delicate and fragile the thought the more in- 
effable is the pleasure of expression and de- 
255 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


tection, the more rapturous the common feel- 
ing of appreciation, the more exquisite the 
thought-child born of such intercourse. 

There are long silences from which I rouse 
myself and ask: 

“ Where were you ? ” 

“ In the temple at Ramesseram ” or “ at 
Madura ” he will answer, or “ Puri, watching 
the pilgrims arrive. And you ? ” 

“ And I,” I answer, “ was sitting on the 
long gallery of the Woodlands, looking off 
to the Snows, to Kinchin junga where the 
cruel Hindu gods were born and from which 
they descended with lolling tongues and leer- 
ing eyes to bind the sweet Hindu women in 
fetters no human fiends could have invented/' 
“ My dear/’ he begs, “ don’t sully the white- 
ness of those snows with such thoughts. 
Look again, at their glory ! ” 


Do you know that if you look long through 
an opera glass at fields of snow, every edge 
and point becomes a prism and all the colours 
of the rainbow are thrown about them? So, 
when he holds my mind fixed on a subject, 
I see outlines and shadows and colours, pure 
or shattered, surrounding every object 
brought to view. 


256 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 

I fear Amy is busy as ever. 

“ My dear,” I beg, “ you may forget your- 
selves, but don’t forget each other,” and she 
laughs back, “ There is no other. We are all 
one and we are bidden to forget it.” 

“ This double one which is an ‘ it ’ is very 
stupid,” I reply. After all I suspect that there 
are times when they forget that they have 
Johnny Ames’ broken collar bone on their 
hands and old Maria’s rheumatics and cough 
to pray about. 


25 7 


XLVII 


UESDAY already and you go on Satur- 



A day! You’ll never, never know what 
you have been to me. 

One more Club meeting? Yes but it is a 
question how to use the time. We held high 
carnival last night. When we could not decide 
where to meet I said each one should propose 
a place and we would draw cuts — provided 
none should propose his own town. 

How did we draw cuts? Oh, we carved 
the names on sticks and made a little nomi- 
nating speech as we dropped them into the 
turban of poor old Shah Allum, whom Gen- 
eral Lake entering Delhi looked upon as the 
last of the Moguls, “ disfigured by the loss of 
his eyes.” Thank God I am not that! 

Of course everybody wanted to go to a dif- 
ferent place, and at last Cupid asked Justice 
— who alone had not voted — “ What do you 
say, Justice?” And she answered “Leave it 
to the President to choose,” and before I 
knew it the Secretary had cast the vote. 


258 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


My mind was all made up, and in five min- 
utes we were all sitting before the Temple of 
Neptune at Paestum. The Apennines stand 
back from the shore a little there, and there is 
a glorious plain, and the sunset was a con- 
flagration. 

Each of us was to tell the most beautiful 
thing he had seen. It made you think of 
Paradise and the Peri. 

We began disastrously. One said perfunc- 
torily “ his mother’s smile,” another his 
“ bride’s eyes,” someone else “ the forgiveness 
in his father’s face,” and a fourth something 
equally far from our intent. 

Being President, you know, I had to call a 
halt and explain that it was not to be an ex- 
perience meeting. We were not to give petty 
personal things. 

Then they all kept still. I urged them to 
occupy the time, but no one said a word. I 
knew they had all gathered plenty of “ eye- 
crops ” as Mr. Beecher called them, and I 
told them so. Then I grew desperate and 
began calling by name: 

" Michelangelo ! ” 

He did not speak at first but I heard him 
rise and knew he was thinking. 

“ I think,” he said, “ the most beautiful 
259 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


thing I ever saw was a block of marble fresh 
from the quarry.” 

“ Milton ! ” 

“ Some illuminated manuscripts in Venice.” 

“ Bartimaeus ! ” 

“ A face.” 

“ Ossian!” 

“ A storm at sea.” 

“ Cupid!” 

His bow gave a twang. 

“ I never saw anything at all.” 

“ Justice?” 

“ The hand that gave me my scales and 
fastened the bandage over my eyes.” 

There was a hush after that and I added : 

“ Yes, the hand that put the bandages over 
all our eyes.” 


The Captain has cabled Helen to meet him 
in San Francisco — she does not know exactly 
when. His letter will tell, but he could not 
wait for her to learn from that that he was 
coming. 

Thomas came about ten this morning to 
show me a word he had printed in big humpy 
letters. I told him I would study over his 
puzzle if he would leave it. I did not want 
him to watch me. Evidently he did it of his 
260 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 

own accord, for when Mr. Kennedy came he 
didn’t seem to know about it. How blind 
they think me! 

I told him just a bit — when Willie Mathews 
went by with the baby crying — about Cupid’s 
account of his infancy when Mrs. Somnus 
used to let little Morpheus come over to 
Venus’ and play, or they went together over to 
the Noxes to see Mors. 

“ What are the conditions of membership in 
your Club ? ” he asked. 

“ Blindness, of course,” I replied. 

“ Have you a waiting list ? ” 

“ No, not exactly,” I said, “ we vote them 
in willy-nilly as soon as we discover them.” 

“ Do you never black-ball ? ” His voice 
sounded so serious! 

“ Only once, that I remember,” I answered. 

“ When?” 

“ Long ago.” 

“ Man or woman ? ” 

“ Man.” 

“ Are you forbidden to tell who it was ? ” 
he queried. 

“ Not forbidden to tell you,” I laughed, 
and went on : “ He was an Egyptian — is yet 
— who lived in Moses’ time — a beggar. 
Moses was in the Nile bathing when he saw 
261 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


him walking along the bank, feeling with his 
stick.” 

“ Well ? ” when I waited. 

“ Moses was so sorry for him that he 
prayed very earnestly to God that his sight 
might be returned. God answered his prayer 
and opened the man’s eyes.” 

“ Moses must have been very happy,” he 
said musingly. 

“ No, he was not,” I went on. “ The first 
thing the man did was to spy Moses’ clothes 
lying on the bank and to make off with them.” 

“ I suppose Moses was so meek he let him 
go as the old Bishop did Jean Valjean — ? ” 

“ No, he did not,” I interrupted. “ He 
prayed God to make the man blind again.” 

“Moses?” Mr. Kennedy asked incredu- 
lously. “ And what did God say ? ” 

“ He refused, and told Moses to remember 
before he prayed again : ‘lam wiser concern- 
ing my creature than thou.’ He knows who 
deserve eyes and who do not — haec fabula 
docet ” I ended a bit sadly. 

“ So you black-balled him ? ” he asked to 
himself. 

“ Yes,” I said. “ You see, he was only en- 
titled to honourary membership and we did 
not consider him fit.” 

262 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


“ I think you cut off your own noses,” he 
laughed. “ I fancy such a member would be 
an interesting study. He may have needed 
those garments more than Moses, as much as 
Jean Valjean needed that first loaf of bread.” 

Helen came then, happy as a lark. “ Ralph 
had cabled ” and “ had we heard ? and he was 
going to bring this and that.” 

When we reminded her that she had three 
months leeway before Ralph even started she 
quieted down and we all straggled back to 
Newton. 

We have just heard of the death of dear 
old Dr. Andrews. Yes, Dr. Ephraim An- 
drews. He was our favourite “ exchange.” 

“ Can you remember him so long ago ? ” 
Helen asked. 

“ I think you would have remembered,” I 
remarked, “ if he had told your father that 
his ‘ Amen ’ at the end of a sermon sounded 
to him like ‘ Take-that-or-be-damned ’ ! ” 


263 


XLVIII 


I T was so warm last night that the others 
planned a walk. When they had started 
and I found they were only going into the 
orchard I surprised Mr. Kennedy by asking 
if we might not go too. He hesitated a little 
and it did seem a wild adventure for me. In 
my mental geography it is one of the blank 
spaces marked with the old legend : Hie sunt 
leones” 

I am so afraid you see how happy I am! 
And that you know how I felt when he handed 
me down the step as naturally as if we could 
both see and he was taking me out to dinner. 
There was such an old-timy feeling that he 
was taking care of me, and such a sense of 
happy need! 

I tried not to stumble or feel out with my 
hand. No one knows how hard it is to keep 
from feeling ahead like a blind-man’s-buff — 
or bough — whichever they’ve decided upon. 
He said that there was no moon and that it 
was quite dark and that there was not the 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


least dew, feeling with his hand. I held up 
my skirts only to keep my free hand engaged, 
lest it forget. 

It was much further to the gate than I 
remembered. When we reached the smooth 
ground under the trees we paced back and 
forth a long time. 

“ Won’t you come over with Amy and in- 
spect my new home ? ” he asked. “ I’m 
planning a honeysuckle arbour to run out this 
way.” 

“ You should build an underground pas- 
sage,” I said, “ as Mr. Mole did to Mrs. 
Mouse’s hole where little Thumbling lived.” 

“ No, indeed,” he laughed, “ Little Thumb- 
ling would not use it and flew away.” 

He told me how New York had seemed 
after India. He was very glad to be home 
but he felt like writing a few “ Persian Let- 
ters ” back to his Hindu and Moslem friends. 

“ We are all very ridiculous to think they 
are absurd,” he remarked. 

“ And they unfortunate to think we are 
wrong?” I added, not at all intending the 
upward inflection. 


“ Shakespeare did not seem to love the 
night,” he said later. “ To him it was a 
265 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


dragon, and Darkness was the dragon’s 
wing.” 

“ He may have had the Chinese fondness 
for dragons,” I replied perversely. “ A 
dragon is only ‘ a seeing creature ’ and one 
who loved dragons could cuddle down very 
happily under a wing, I presume.” 

I forget his answer, for the tone in which 
it was given was that same old-time assump- 
tion of responsibility for me, and a feeling 
came over me that if he insisted upon doing it 
himself I would not mind being wrapped in 
the “ blanket of the dark ” and put to sleep 
forever — petrified, as I used to dream, in 
my present mood. 

Nothing more was said and soon he turned 
toward the gate, which was not easy to find 
in the dark. When I put out my hand to 
see if we were safely through, he caught it 
and laid it also on his arm. 


You remember Dea? I am afraid Amy has 
known why I loved to hear her read of her. 

“What is it that you call seeing?” she 
asked. “ For me I cannot see ! I know. It 
seems to me that to see means to hide,” be- 
cause, poor child, she had never seen! 

If she had known what sight was, could she 
266 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 

have called her blindness “ divinely incura- 
ble ?” 

“ Do souls,” Ursus growls at me — “ Booby ! 
do souls require eyes to see each other ? ” 

After Gwynplaine had gone he listened to 
her and went muttering to himself : 

“ Dark ! This is the first time she ever 
uttered that word.” And she: 

“ It is now that I am blind. I knew not 
what night was. It is Absence.” 

I wonder if one might ever — having eyes 
— say : “ I knew not what Sight was. It is 
presence ? ” 


They tell me that the light of the farthest 
star, seen through a glass, has been two mil- 
lion years upon its way to us. Why should 
any of us despair of light when some far star 
or sun may have foreseen our darkness and 
sent forth its beams to us two million years 
ago? Can we not await their coming in pa- 
tient trust? 

Yes, I know this must be our last day, and 
I cannot thank you duly for your kind pa- 
tience. I have not done what I meant to do. 
Indeed, though, I had not a plan marked out 
so plainly that I can reproach myself seri- 
ously for wandering. Events which I could 
267 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


not foresee have filled my mind more than I 
thought possible. 

For years Amy and I lived on here with 
our mother in the house that was dear to her, 
from the time she wandered, widowed, to 
her father’s home. 

Since mother went we have come back 
when we were tired with travel, to live more 
quietly still — she with her work, I with my 
books and letters. How could we dream that 
our quiet house would fill with happy friends, 
and be the scene of Cupid’s machinations! 
Mr. Nelson and you and Helen and Mr. Ken- 
nedy have all helped to make me so happy. 

Sit nearer, dear. There is one thing more. 
I do not know how to tell you. Perhaps they 
know that I know it, perhaps not, but, since 
you have known so long that it would come, 
I do not mind you knowing the manner of its 
coming. 


You remember Dea’s “ To be blind and to 
be loved — what happier fate ? ” 

I had come to believe that I was loved, and 
had allowed myself of late to be — half 
happy. 

Yes, only half. A girl may be content to 
268 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


be loved, but a woman knows that it is the 
lesser half of joy only to receive. 

It is the giving which counts, and what had 
I to give? Self is the dollar mark which 
shows what the numerals mean, and myself 
was but a blurred and blackened stain. 

You are right, dear. Being blind I could 
give all, but like other coin the coin of love 
depends for value on its purchasing power. 
The gift is smaller as there is less need in the 
receiver. 

Oh, yes, I know how it seems to you. Now 
will you listen? It is not easy to delay the 
telling. 

Last night Mr. Kennedy came over late, I 
had been sitting alone for an hour perhaps. 
I heard Thomas open the gate for him. 

“ I hoped you’d come,” I said, extending 
my hand, which he did not take. I have 
thought that hand-shaking must be quite an 
unknown custom in India — besides, it was too 
dark. 

“ I need a new scrap to think about/' I 
said as gaily as I could. “ Have we ex- 
hausted your precious Novalis? ” 

“ Never,” he laughed, “ and before we 
launch into any Hindoo nonsense I’ll teach 
269 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


you a beautiful text.” Then in a steady 
monotone : 

“ Now I know when will come the last 
morning ; when the Light no more scares away 
the Night and Love/’ 

Twice he said it, before I repeated — try- 
ing to do it lightly : 

“ Now I know when will come the last 
morning : when the Light no more scares 
away the Night and Love.” 

“ How could he say that ? ” I asked. 
“ How did he know ? ” 

“ I know,” he answered. “ He tells us : ‘I 
hold fast an eternal, unchangeable faith in the 
heaven of the Night — and its sun, the Be- 
loved.’ ” 


After he had gone — we had talked an hour 
perhaps — I waited for Amy and Mr. Nelson 
— How can I tell you ! 

They came slowly up the willow walk. 

As they entered the side gate, where they 
always seem to pause, Amy was speaking and 
I heard her final question : 

“ You do not think Oudene suspects it 
yet?” 

“ Suspects what, dear ? ” 

270 


CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT 


“ That Mr. Kennedy is blind too? ” 

There was a little pause before he an- 
swered : 

“ Eve wondered.” 


THE END 


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